No Reason
by Era Yachi
Summary: A boy from Karse comes to the Collegium. A group of trainees pull a prank on Alberich, and suffer the consequences. All the while, Selenay is trying to avoid a high-ranking, half-mad Herald who tries to win her hand. Stress ensues.
1. The Fight

**Title: **No Reason

**Summary**: A boy from Karse comes to the Collegium. A group of Trainees pull a prank on Alberich, and suffer the consequences. All the while, Selenay is trying to avoid a high-ranking, half-mad Herald who tries to win her hand. Stress ensues.

**Genre: **Action/Adventure (with suspense, horror, humor and a little bit of romance, too)

**Rated: **PG-13 (for later mentions of blood, some sexual hints, language etc…)

**Notes: **Simply put, I'm going to enjoy writing this. Why? Because it's fun to get Trainees in trouble and see the brilliantly planned schemes Alberich uses to punish them. Also, because I wanted to create a new Herald character of a different kind…an older one, slightly insane, nothing much. Oh, and because an even newer, young Herald Trainee comes to befriend our Weaponsmaster and is a bit of an eccentric himself. What is the relationship here? Is there some kind of conspiracy? Heck, I dunno yet. That's the joy of writing a new fanfiction…sigh…

-------------------------------------------------

**Chapter One**

Creigh stared at the letter in his hands. The parchment had been folded so many times that the words had distorted partially and the creases had faded the ink where the paper was beginning to tear. Grimacing to himself, he tucked the thing back into his boot, where he knew it would be safe from his antics. It was his nervous nature to occupy his hands when he was bothered

He sat on the back of a rolling wagon amidst seven other 'students' with similar 'papers of notice'. Each one of the boys bore painful expressions of anxiety or wonder. Altogether, Creigh could not blame them. He was just another one of them, being hauled away from his birthplace, his family and every other item of intrinsic value he had found in life.

His father had tried to protect him. He did so by telling his son that the border towns of Karse were never bothered with during the war, at least, not when it came to choosing warriors. It was only wise to keep the men of youth and power at these outermost stations, to defend the brinks of their nation should a skirmish occur.

But now, _now_ everything was different. Karse was different. After the War with Demons, and even though Karse had achieved glorious victory, the Demon King had charged forth and torn the righteous Karsite army asunder with his evil and sinful magic. And even though the evil King had died with the Karsite victory, Karse herself had been badly damaged. Now _every_ able-bodied man was required to travel to the nearest Temple for training.

He drifted out of his misery a moment, and then realized that the boy next to him -- Haschel, the tailor's son -- was whispering.

"Vkandis Sunlord, and…the Sunpriests…they'll protect us…won't they?"

A response to this did not come to Creigh immediately. What could he say? It was no duty of the Sunpriests to protect the protectors of Karse. It was now _their_ duty to protect _them_.

"Perhaps," he said slowly. "We are men now, Haschel. We have honor. This is a privilege, not an arrest. We should be proud to…serve our country."

"Horse manure," spat another youth, one two or three years older than Creigh. "If we're serving our country by abandoning our families, then I'd rather be trampled by a red-eyed witch-beast."

"Careful," said another boy, although old enough he was verging on the years of manhood. "You just might get what you wish. Besides, witch-beasts have blue eyes, not red."

There was a brief silence, before Haschel cleared his throat. "Is it true, that in the midst of battle their eyes change color? I've heard it said. Just before one kills you, their blue eyes change to red. Just like it says in the legend, 'the arbiter of true evil casts off his mask in every murderous deed.'"

"If that were true," said the oldest, "How would anyone know, if the victims are all dead?"

Haschel paled. He clearly was suffering from this conversation, as his hands twitched in his lap and his eyes darted everywhere a noise drew them. Creigh felt sorry for him, but that feeling didn't extend as far as pity. He was not the only one to be taken from his home and forced to take up arms. They were all in the same position. They had to endure it together.

"Do you suppose…we'll have to fight them?"

The question was apparently on everyone's mind, for not one boy looked up to meet each other's eyes. Even Creigh couldn't bear to think of a battle against the demon horses without a grimace. Until today, no one had ever imagined taking up arms against a foe thrice as large, and just as murderous. Not once.

"That doesn't matter," said the oldest. "If we do, they'll train us for it. We probably won't see real battle for ages yet, not until they've taught us properly."

"No," said another, slightly younger than the first speaker. He was a bright-eyed, lean boy named Torik. "This is wartime. They'll have us peeling the front lines before the week's out for sure."

"That's suicide!" exclaimed the oldest. "And daft. They'll give us time to learn, you'll see. Right, Creigh?"

He was slightly surprised to be called upon. Quietly, he lifted his head and exchanged a mild glance with the oldest boy. "I suppose," he said. Then he thought of Haschel. "They will not make war of us prematurely. We may be little more than resources, but even resources are not meant to be wasted."

The others stared at him for a moment, as if taken back by his usual bluntness. The oldest recovered first. "There, you see? We're important. They'll train us and they'll train us hard; that's the end of it."

As if on a cursed kind of cue, the wagon suddenly jolted to a halt. Immediately, Creigh took notice of the sudden lack of mounted soldiers in his sight. Where there had been men a few moments before was now empty, and they were quite apparently…alone. Then his eyes traveled to the spot the other boys had already discovered.

A slight young man was riding up on his mount. He stopped just beside the cart and reigned his horse in. "Out, the lot of you. You're needed, boys."

"Needed for what?" the oldest ventured. He stood up in the cart.

"What's that supposed to mean?" ventured another youth Creigh could not recall the name of.

"Demon Riders," panted the young soldier. His eyes gleamed behind his dirt-streaked face. "Two fresh ones they've caught, and their beasts. Lieutenant wants to have fun with them."

Creigh stared coolly at the older man, yet made no sound of any kind. The others around him were either approving with loud, crowing voices and others with onslaught of questions. Someone jabbed him in the ribs with their elbow, which earned them a sharp glare. But he had a hunch about what kind of 'fun' their lieutenant was expecting.

The group of nine began piling out of the cart. Creigh stepped onto the hard track, glad enough he was allowed to stretch his legs, let alone given a chance to prove his strength. He hung around at the back of the group, preceding only the finicky, fidgety Haschel who looked as if he would have preferred a lashing than a chance to face the famous Demon Witches, or their wicked animals.

They did not travel far. Just as they climbed over the hill behind their cart, Creigh began to understand why the lieutenant's men had vanished so abruptly. Approximately forty men, five mounted on their nervous mounts circled a flat, rocky plateau some yards off the road. In their midst stood three pure white horses – no, White Demons, two of which were bearing young men. The third was rider-less and tack-less and there was nothing to compare the wild fury in those sky blue eyes, even from a distance.

Two foreign magic-users, sinners of the heathens to Vkandis Sunlord and a wild demon horse. Surely the lieutenant was not expecting his brand new, _untrained,_ forcibly recruited charges to "have fun" with such dangerous enemies?

"Ah, there you are," said a breezy, almost delighted voice. Taken slightly by surprise, Creigh raised his head to find that their envoy had stopped just on the edge of the plateau. The lieutenant grinned with no gleeful humor at the scraggly youths. "Time to get your farm-hard hands a little dirty, eh?"

Creigh was scarcely interested in getting anything of his dirty. Not that being dirty – blood or dirt be damned – bothered him, but the prospect of battling two unarmed men on their steeds, demons or otherwise, seemed slightly insane.

"What're you lookin' so frightened for?" snapped the lieutenant, almost good-heartedly. "The fun's good for you. You know what to do, you half-breed ingrates. Now pick a weapon. They're not armed. You are."

His instincts were right. Surely the lieutenant was a little eccentric, but he would surely have been a sheer madman to send nine green village boys against two _armed_ Demon Riders. Unarmed, they still had a chance to bring them down. But there remained the beasts…

Creigh was no stranger with the wrath of a full-grown stallion. As a farm hand, subduing and controlling a stud in the breeding season was the equivalent of facing a trained warhorse on the battlefield. This was not an experience that was going to end neatly.

"No?" growled the lieutenant, scowling at their fallen faces. "Cowards. There is no better honor in the Sunlord's eyes," he went on, reining his horse up short as he spoke. The nervous mount skittered to one side. "Especially the Sunpriests eyes…than to kill one of these treacherous spawn of our enemies! These are traitors to the great Vkandis Sunlord and users of forbidden magic!"

His grated words had little effect on the boys. Even the oldest, who had been one of the more eager faces moments before was paling.

Unfortunately, Creigh was easily provoked. His patience was drawing thinner than it had ever been, but he did manage to restrain his voice when he broke the uncomfortable silence.

"Very well, then. Where are they?" he said wearily.

The lieutenant shot a look that would pierce steel. "They're right there, boy. Are you daft?"

"No, sir," he replied flatly. "I meant the weapons. Where are they? I don't suppose staring at them will kill them any faster. Assuming looks do not kill."

The round man's face reddened. "You had better watch your tongue, boy," he seethed. "You're not even an officer yet. You rank lower than the mules that carry our packs! Private!"

A sallow-looking man appeared at the head of the lieutenant's mount. He looked up gravely, with no compassion in his obedient glare.

"Give this young pig here your sword," the lieutenant ordered. "See to it the others are armed as well. Swords, knives, maces, clubs, pitchforks, anything! Bows and arrows. A slingshot, for the Sunlord's sake! I want those fools dead, and these daft urchins broken! Understand?"

The private nodded solemnly, unsheathed his sword and handed it to Creigh without a trace of a glance or grunt. In a matter of a few moments, the remaining Leindal youths were carrying an assortment of weapons, ranging from finely crafted blades to crossbows with lead-tipped arrows. Not one looked at all happy, but their fears were somewhat relieved with the quality of their arms.

"Close the circle," grunted their pudgy superior. "Make sure not a man or beast escapes. That includes our impatient young…friends." He added the last word with a sneer. "Move out, you green dogs! I want witch blood on those rocks, now!"

Creigh paced forward stiffly, ignoring the deepening stares of the soldiers surrounding them. He had no training with a sword outside his skirmishes with the other boy sin mock-fights. He had even less skill with a crossbow, as he'd never touched one before in his life. Regardless of those facts, he was feeling unusually confident that he could triumph over these crafters of forbidden arts.

The remaining boys fanned out beside him. Creigh noted with uneasiness that they were forcing their pace to be stiff, like his. At least he'd impressed this group, despite his bad confrontation with the lieutenant. Haschel was nowhere in sight.

Now he could see the two Demon Riders closely. To his surprise, they were younger than he'd ever imagined a dangerous "witch" could be. They were dressed in elegant, white robes with tightly woven chain mail tunics. They bore no weapons at all, at least, none that were visible.

They were staring at their opponents with…fear? Impossible. No artisan of witchcraft feared anything. They were too shrewd, careless and heinous in their actions and they had little reason to fear anything.

But there was no mistaking their expressions. Even their graceful, disgustingly beautiful steeds seemed skittish. Except for the wild one, a full body length or more separate from its allies. It watched Creigh approach with a burning, even _thoughtful_ gaze that sent an unusual tremor down his spine.

It felt like an endless staring contest. He stopped strutting confidently and slowed to a halt; transfixed on one demon horse apart from the others. There was something not right about this. This was…wrong.

Of course, as soon as everything seemed to come to a peaceful standstill, war broke loose.

A single arrow sped forward, poorly aimed as it was. Before Creigh was aware of the soft 'twang' of the bow in Hashcel's hands, the arrow embedded itself in the thigh of the closest Demon Rider. The young man cried out and gripped his bleeding leg tightly. His companion surged forward, bearing down on the scattered group of untrained boys.

At once, Creigh's eye contact with the stray beast was severed. An overwhelming instinct to defend himself, an instinct that was not _his_, caused him to dive out of the way of the charging demon horse. The rider and mount sped by and broke through the line of weakly scattered boys.

Creigh snapped his head up just in time to avoid the flailing hooves of the second white beast. He swung his sword wildly, hoping to drive it back. Apparently he missed, for there was scarcely another second before he felt something hard strike the side of his head. It was a glancing blow, but it did send him to the ground.

The fatal blow he'd been expecting did not come. Instead, he saw a flash of silver as the beast's hooves landed on the ground beside him. Another flash, and they were gone. The air was full of men's shouts and the screams of horses as they did battle for their riders. Their mounts were _protecting_ them. These were not mere war-trained horses taught to crush attacking opponents underneath them -- theses creatures were the ones _doing _the attacking.

At once, he had scrambled to his feet. His vision was slightly blurred, but he could make out the ghostly forms of the witch-beasts dancing to and fro between his friends. The boys were obviously inexperienced and it was also obvious that _they_ were losing the battle, armed as they were. Creigh felt a sudden surge of anger and resentment towards the lieutenant, whom was still sitting on one side and remaining uninvolved.

Yet it was not over and he was not unchallenged. With the two mounted beasts occupied with the others, Creigh was now left alone to do battle with the remaining stallion. Fighting such a creature was unthinkable; _defeating_ it would surely be impossible. It bore no rider or tack, leaving it free of burdens. It was wild.

And subdued. One look at the stallion brought a cold chill to his spine, and not for the first time. No, the wild one did not attack him as the others had done. In fact, it bore an expression -- a look only a human should privilege -- of gratitude. Almost plaintive, and expecting. Protective, like the protection that drove the other beasts to fight for their masters.

No, corrected a faint voice. Not masters at all. Companions. Chosen.

That word was like a bucket of cold water drenching his head. How did he know such things? How was it this creature was so receiving and still? Why would it not fight like the others? And, to much of his own shock, Creigh found himself unwilling to lift the sword and end the life of the vile beast so close to him.

:_Trap:_

The voice was _in his head_! Stunned, he stumbled back and clutched his head with his free hand. "Wh-what?"

_:This is a trap!: _the voice commanded again, this time with a due amount of force behind it. At the same time, the silvery beast glided towards him and circled him once. _:They want to kill you, not train you. You must flee. We must flee…together.:_

Creigh re-gripped his sword, realizing that it had become loose in his hand. He swallowed and stood, confused and stunned at this new revelation. Was this creature actually _speaking_ to him? How? More witchcraft?

"What are you waiting for?" roared the lieutenant from his mount. "Kill it! Kill it now, before it knocks your bloody skull in!"

_:No, run!:_ the voice warned. A flood of panic came upon him, a feeling that was given to him from the source of the voice. _:They mean to give your lives to the Fires. Climb on! I must take you away from here!:_

Creigh was shaking his head and backing away. Ride a witch-beast? Flee? From what? He was here to prove his worth, not run away from an invisible enemy. And if they had been planning to burn him after all, what for? First of all, they needed a Sunpriest to authorize the Fire and a reason to call him a traitor. He was supposed to defeat these enemies before him, and they were surely not helping _him_.

_They only burn witches_, he reminded himself. _I am in no danger._

_ :They will burn whatever they please,: _the creature told him, staring relentlessly with his cerulean blue eyes. _:They know of your gift! It is a trap, and clever! There is no time! You must listen to me, or…:_

Somehow, Creigh felt the 'twang' of the bowstring, as if it had been released in the pit of his stomach. Even though the man and the bow were twenty yards away, he felt the path of the arrow headed for him. No, not him. The arrow that was approaching was for this vile, stupid, evil and ultimately beautiful and _kind _creature.

How he knew this, he had less than a tenth of a second to imagine. A surge of emotion and much, much more erupted in that moment. A stunning, unseen force that literally reached out and surrounded the sharp projectile with a barrier flowed from him, pulling a deep well of energy with it. Creigh gasped and sunk to his knees, dumbstruck at the amount of strength it took to stop the arrow. In mid-air. Somehow.

All around him, the prancing and fighting ceased. Men were murmuring loudly, and most were staring. One hundred eyes were affixed on that arrow, embedded in the air like a dart on a post. Then, those eyes followed it as it twitched slightly, and dropped soundlessly to the ground.

Creigh realized only too late that had he managed to stay on his feet, shown no signs of fatigue whatsoever, they would not have linked the unnatural phenomenon to him. But he had, and even a blind man would have seen that he was the cause of this…this witchcraft.

This _treason_.

"Heathen!" bellowed a voice that could only be the lieutenant. "Traitorous witch! The whelp has defiled the name of Vkandis Sunlord! Seize him! Seize them all!"

Those words were more powerful a blow than the force of the witch-beast's hooves. At once, he recognized the clever disguise, the trap as it was. The lieutenant had changed in all but appearance now. Creigh knew the power in that kind of voice too. The man he'd thought was a lowly ranked officer in charge of an impossibly large number of men was in fact, none other than a Sunpriest. A man he'd thought was just another religious fanatic and too bloated for his own ego was another man of high power and the messenger of the Sunlord himself.

And he, Creigh, the farmer from a small border village, was a traitor with a death sentence that poisoned the air and made it difficult for him to breathe.

_:Now! Please!: _The voice pounded in his head. _:You are my Chosen. I will protect you, here and on! Onto my back, and we will flee together!:_

He did not know what finally compelled him, but the sudden roar of voices and the startled cries of his fellow village boys frightened him beyond any moment of true horror he'd ever experienced. Suddenly, the circle of soldiers collapsed and dove in on him. He stared wondrously, unable to move, until a large white boy obstructed them from view. The stallion had placed himself between the onslaught of soldiers and himself.

He shook himself out of his daze and seized the beast's mane in one hand. Hardly had he managed to swing his leg over the white stallion's back, than it surged forward and charged right through the loosely grouped men. It was dumb luck and an overwhelming desire to live that kept Creigh seated on the unsaddled back of the beast.

The _speed_ he was traveling alone nearly unseated him. However the brute was managing to gallop so fast slipped beyond his reasoning. All Creigh could concentrate on was staying on the back of the creature and not looking down at the ground as it sped by. That was challenging enough.

By _not_ looking down, he managed to catch sight of what was around him. Scenery simply flew by, like a blur. He could not tell tree apart from buck, or rock from animal or crevice. Slowly, his eyes focused on another white figure off to one side. It was another witch-beast, with its rider intact. The other was there as well, slightly farther off. Draped across the front of the mount's saddle and in front of the rider was a dark blot. It was either a bundle of rags or a very limp man.

The wind whipped at his hair and caused his eyes to sting and water. He was faintly aware of his head throbbing and a dull ache just above his eyes. The pain increased for one dazzling moment before his grip slackened and the world around him faded to blackness.


	2. The Reason

**Notes: **Hooray…people are reviewing for me. Reviews, good are. Perhaps, backwards for a while I will speak. Good practice for coming chapters, it is.

…Uh, two things. One, I don't know if it's 'Valdemarian' or 'Valdemese' so I stuck with 'Valdemarian' for the heck of it. You'll also take note of some um…similarities between this chapter and the beginning of the first book. I did it on purpose. Don't get excited. (no, I did not COPY the book…sheesh. Read the chapter and you'll see what I mean.)

**Disclaimer: **I forgot to put this in the last chapter. I don't own Mercedes Lackey's characters or ideas. Technically, Creigh is my character. But not really. He's based off of Mercedes Lackey's ideas. Any questions?

-------------------------------------------------------------

**Chapter Two**

Alberich had always shown little respect for Hurlee. As of this afternoon, he had none.

Given, he was not a crooked-hearted man, although he was strict. The punishment he had dealt on the group of boys responsible for the large welt forming above his left ear had been a fair one. Three nights worth of star-training. Which meant, for the next three days, six of his students would train in his class by day, and under the stars at night.

He hadn't expected he would one day be _grateful_ for his hair. Now he was; it concealed the purple-and-red bruise from sight completely. No one would suspect it was there, unless the happened to touch the side of his head.

Which they would not.

_:I still think that was harsh:_ his Companion told him, not for the first time. _:Admit it. You were the one who walked onto their field without calling a break.:_

_:I was in plain sight: _Alberich furrowed his brow as he passed through the mess hall. _:Must I remind you again, that is was _you_ who walked onto the field? Surely I am your Chosen, but I have no direction of where you place your feet.: _

From wherever he was, Kantor snorted. _:Hooves. I'm not blaming anyone, Chosen. Merely pointing out that under the circumstances, you overreacted.:_

_:I never overreact,:_ came the tart reply, and that was the end of it. Kantor was wiser than to continue arguing endlessly about it, as did Alberich. In the end, neither would win. There was no point in trying to match wits.

After another moment, however, Kantor spoke with a twinge of humor. _:The looks on their faces…:_

_:That was worth it.:_

Alberich could sense his Companion laugh, and it was admittedly contagious. He found himself smiling to himself as he strode between the long wooden tables. So lost in thought was he, that he hadn't noticed the man sitting in one of the numerous vacant seats as he passed by.

"You look cheerful," said Talamir, rising from his seat. "Which one of your students was victimized today?"

The smile faded from his lips as Alberich stopped. He regarded the Queen's Own with a confused look. "A surprise, this is," he said bluntly. "What brings you here, Talamir? An emergency it is not, I hope?"

"Of course not," the other man sighed. "Honestly, I don't know. I lost track of time and found myself wandering about until my feet got sore. So I sat down."

Alberich was not convinced. If Talamir had been a stranger, he still would not have believed him. For one, he'd known the man for too long to buy it. For another, the Queen's Own simply did not wander about until his feet got sore. Perhaps on a holiday, such as the Ice Festival, but today was certainly no holiday.

_:Yes it is,: _Kantor put in mildly. _:It's 'Get Hit in the Head With a Hurlee Ball' Day. Don't tell me Myste didn't tell you?:_

He brushed his Companion away with a stray thought and kept his gaze fixated carefully on the man before him. Before long, Talamir sat back down again.

"Nothing gets through you, does it?" he asked the Weaponsmaster.

"Rarely, yes," was the response. Alberich smiled grimly. "A very rare occasion, it is."

"Indeed." Talamir watched him for another second or two. "Actually, I came looking for you. No one knows what you do out of classes, except Kantor. It was through him I found you."

"Something important, then?" Alberich ventured. "Needed somewhere, I am? Or required for another class?"

"Yes, then no," said Talamir. "You had better sit down for this one, Alberich."

The Weaponsmaster frowned slightly, but did as he was advised.

Talamir nodded. "A few days ago, one of the younger Companions disappeared. At first, everyone believed he was simply off brooding over whatever choice he had made for a Chosen. Then night came, and we discovered he had traveled to the Karsite border and crossed it."

Alberich did nothing to mask the enormous shock that struck him. Had this been any other than Talamir, he might have made an attempt. But he did not even try, and he did not need to. Before he could comment, Talamir went on.

"Immediately, we sent two Heralds across the border to fetch him. The closest to him, coincidently, happened to be two of your recently graduated students. They made it across all right, but by the time they found the Companion, he was already in Karsite hands. They too, were captured while attempting to rescue him.

"Karsite soldiers trapped them in a tight circle, blocking off their escape. Then something odd happened. No, they were not thrown into chains and put to death. Karsite boys, untrained farmer's sons by the look of them, were set against them with arms. There may have been eight or nine, but none of them appeared happy to be doing the battling."

At this, Alberich relaxed slightly. He knew why the boys had been recruited and he knew why they had been forced to battle before their first lesson. It happened very often in border towns; soldiers arrived to recruit young men, took them away and made them fight fresh from their homes. And if one of them showed a hint of witch-power…

A chill swept through him. Border villages often had mixed blood -- Valdemarian and Karsite together. Although legal Karsite citizens, it was not unusual to find a boy or girl within the Karsite border who had _some_ power. The stronger ones were normally recruited and taken to the Temples, but the rest…

"You can imagine which side won," said Talamir. "But during the fight, another unusual thing happened. One of the Karsite boys stopped an arrow from striking a Companion down."

This confused Alberich even further. "Not with power?" he inquired. "Such a thing is possible?"

"It is," said the other man. "It's a rare gift: Meditation. It's the same as Mindspeech, only the user's senses are tripled for an intensely short amount of time. Instead of directing speech, the power is used to stop objects in mid-air. It can also be used for lifting things as well as striking things from a distance."

"Very useful, that is," said Alberich.

"Like I said, very rare," the Queen's Own countered. "But that is not all. The Companion, whose life he saved, Chose him."

Alberich stiffened in his chair immediately. "Chose-"

"They somehow escaped in the confusion. The soldiers, and the Sunpriest present were attempting to recapture the boy, having seen his Gift. The two Heralds, Garan and Jale, managed to elude the soldiers as well." He sighed. "Currently, they are meeting with the Queen. The boy from Karse is resting in the Healer's salle and receiving treatment from a head wound Jale's Companion inflicted. That is why I sought you out."

"I?" Alberich forced himself to appear calm. "What reason for my help there is? A translator, you need not. From a border village he may be, thus he may be fluent in both languages."

"Well, for one," Talamir put mildly. "His syntax is worse than yours. Yours, a least, seems to be improving somewhat, but this boy can't seem to decide which words belong where and what language to use them in. Wherever he's from, they must not receive many Valdemarian travelers.

"And," he added with a bit more force. "He is young and confident. And stubborn, from my perspective. I'm not summoning you simply because you are Karsite in blood, Alberich. His similarities to your students are increasing with every moment he's conscious. From that same perspective, I believe you're the best one to handle this. You were once in the same position he is now."

"Much the same," Alberich spoke softly. "Confused and angry, he must be. Taken from his family at first, then from his home was he removed."

"My thoughts exactly," said Talamir quietly. "If anyone is to try and convince him that we are not all monsters who breed demons, why not you?"

Alberich gave him a reproachful look. "As each day passes, more like Selenay you sound. Her idea, this was?"

"She mentioned it," came the distracted response. "Well, Alberich. I won't delay you from your leisure activities much longer. Also, I cannot order you to sort this out, nor would I given the opportunity. I would prefer to think about it as a favor. If you want to, you should visit the boy later on. The Healers already have word that you're coming."

There was a definite pause as Alberich conferred with his Companion over a question he'd meant to speak out loud. "Distant from his Companion, this boy is. Kantor tells me that Donli, his Companion, most surface thoughts he cannot reach."

"All the more reason for you to speak to him," said Talamir as he rose from his seat. "Selenay needs me again. I'm probably required to present a suitable reward for the young Heralds. Good luck, Herald Alberich."

The Weaponsmaster nodded slightly, staring after the man as he took his leave from the room. It was late, the evening meals done and the hall was vacant for all except him. The deafening silence only helped him think, for which he was grateful. He needed to think.

A very large part of him agreed to the idea whole-heartedly. But it fought against something else, a small feeling of doubt and dislike. Of course, speaking to this young Karsite boy and explaining the truth about the life of lies that shrouded him could only be a good thing. However…

However, that part of him could only argue that it would be wrong. This boy, whoever he was and wherever he had come from, was Karsite. No matter how Alberich told him, his efforts would only seem like an attempt to convert the boy away from his home. It would feel so to the boy and to himself as well.

Then again, 'home' was an overrated term. Karse was not this boy's home any longer, now that his gift had been revealed. He was in exile, brought to Valdemar by the same means that brought Alberich. A Companion, a place to stay, and people willing to accept him for what he was.

And that, he knew, was just enough.

------------------------------

He was alive.

The pain in his head made it clear that he was still _very_ much alive. There was a soft surface underneath him: a bed, no doubt. He would have been very much surprised to find himself anywhere else, besides in the shackles of some dark prison, awaiting his execution by Fire. But that was not the scenario, no, for he was no longer Creigh of Leindal. He was no even Creigh of Karsite. He was Creigh of Nowhere.

This he had known for quite some time. Around him were voices, speaking a language he couldn't understand. Then again, he found he could grasp it, but their words made no sense to him whatsoever. That didn't matter. After unsuccessfully attempting to ask for a glass of water, he had given up.

There was a problem. Try as he might, he could see nothing of his surroundings. He _felt_ hot, and exhausted, and he could smell the wood, the embers of the nearby fire, the faint smell of cinnamon from a warm beverage nearby. But there was no sight -- only darkness.

He'd hoped, a small, futile hope, that he had been discovered at the side of a road by another Karsite. That hope had actually become his only will to continue living, that perhaps the Sunpriests had _not_ found him, that the entire dilemma was just a horrible nightmare. And it lasted for several hours, until he could think clearly enough to realize that were he in Karse, people would speak Karsite. Not this horrible witch-tongue.

For better and worse, the voice of the witch-beast had not returned. At first, he could 'hear' traces of it in the back of his mind, somewhere. The creature must have elected to leave him alone once it realized it wasn't going to provoke a response. And yet, Creigh regretted it after a while. Whatever the beast was, it was the only thing that understood him in the midst of this terrible mess. _It_ was the only thing _he_ could understand.

Creigh counted minutes in his head. He lost track of time somewhere around two hours, no longer feeling the need to know whether it was light or day. He could not sleep, as much as he wanted to, and he was forced to endure the sharp, painful ache in his head and the heat that swallowed his body in silence.

After a while, someone entered the room. They closed the door and made a sound that resembled a cloth being dipped in water, and rung out again. Something cool and wet was draped over his blazing forehead, and he almost shuddered with relief. The 'person' made a clucking sound of disappointment before turning around and exiting the room once more.

He was not left alone for long. Another few minutes strolled by before he was aware of _two_ persons entering the room. One was speaking steadily, as if giving orders. The other was sighing and replying in sharp tones, and Creigh concluded that their argument had something to do with him. The cloth was removed and replaced by a hand.

It was cold, and dry. The hand lingered for a second and withdrew again. The first speaker, a man judging by the voice ordered the other (a woman) to do something. She must have complied, for there were no further protests.

At first, Creigh thought they had left. He heard no creak of the door, nor the falling of footsteps, but it seemed so anyway. It had gone silent -- dead silent, and Creigh only had time to open his mouth to utter a weak inquiry before something miraculous happened.

It felt like someone had _reached_ into his head and fixed an icy grip around the burning sensation that he'd been suffering. It was as if someone had doused the flames of discomfort with cool water, leaving nothing but a tingling in the front of his mind. And all at once, the veil of darkness lifted from his eyes.

Creigh reacted much the same as a hawk with its hood removed. No longer pinned down by blindness or fever, he jolted forward and sat up in the bed. He saw the woman -- who had been _very_ close to him before he jumped -- pull back in surprise. The man, the one with the dry hands stood behind her, eying him carefully.

The woman was rather plain, dressed in a gray robe that touched the floor. Besides her youthful air, she appeared to be quite old and stubborn, but there was kindness behind those eyes. That alone surprised him.

The other, the man, was adorned in a white uniform -- a collection of robes and a tunic that were embroidered with patterns of thread. He was not quite as old as the woman, but his slender, cragged face as that of deep wisdom. His hair was a very pale gray, almost as light as the clothing he wore. He was staring intently at the boy.

"Where am I?" Creigh demanded. "Who are you?"

He could tell by their blank expressions that he had spoken Karsite instead of their own, backwards language. Still, he knew enough of it to at least try to make them understand.

Before he open his mouth, however, the man spoke in Valdemarian. "You are at the Collegium, young man. Can you understand me?"

He did. Setting his jaw firmly, Creigh nodded. "I do. This place, I do not know. Where I am, tell me."

There was some flicker of relief in the man's gaze. "You are in Valdemar. The Collegium is a school for training Heralds…those like you, who have gifts."

Heralds? Creigh understood half of what the man said to him, but he didn't quite understand what a 'gift' meant. And the world for 'school' meant nothing to him. His knowledge of this language was very limited indeed.

He was sure that they could tell from _his_ blank expression that he did not understand. The man sighed and turned to the woman, spoke something rapidly, and then dismissed her. She looked sour, but she did leave the room to carry out the man's wishes.

"Teach," said the man, returning his attention once more to the boy. "Do you understand that?"

It was a vaguely familiar word, yes. Creigh nodded again, a little more hesitantly.

"Good. We teach here. Teach people like you to use their…magic." The man's voice was hesitant, too, as he searched for alternate words.

Creigh understood immediately. This was a school of witchcraft! He would have preferred a thousand fires and a thousand dishonorable curses than to be at such a place! Simply breathing the air inside this revoltingly secular building was enough to condemn a man.

Unless, of course, he was already condemned.

The man obviously regretted telling him, and could see the horror flash across the boy's face. He shook his head and held up a hand. "Wait. I cannot…speak so that you understand. Another man will come to talk to you."

The man turned to leave, but Creigh started. "Wait!"

He received a questioning glare, which he returned in force. "What…of me do you want?"

A grim nod followed his demand; the man regarded him as one would see a child much younger than he. "That, you will learn yourself."

Once again, Creigh was left alone in the small room with only his thoughts for company.

--------------------

Creigh jolted awake. There were more voices outside his door. Cursing himself for falling asleep and cursing _them_ for unknowingly waking him up, he shifted his weight so that he sat up straight. Somehow, he'd managed to doze off while leaning against the wall beside his bed, having spent a good half hour at a blank wall with nothing to do.

The voices he heard were muffled and distant, meaning they were still a long way from the door. Even so, he did not want them to catch him slouching, like some witless, hopeless life. They were _not_ going to make a prisoner of him.

Thankfully, his fever had not returned. Also, the ache where he'd been struck during the battle had all but disappeared and he was delighted to find that he could concentrate on his surroundings. The light no longer hurt his eyes. Something very unusual, but _pleasant_ had happened to him in the past few hours. There was no word to describe it but 'miraculous'.

His back went rigid when the voices grew louder. There were two, both male. He was sure that neither one of them belonged to the man he'd spoken to earlier. One was young and cheerful; the other deeper somewhat slower than the first. Something about it unnerved him. It was…familiar, yet not recognizable. The way it sounded was familiar…

Then it struck him. It was the other man's accent. It was Karsite.

He could not even question himself about this, for the door to the room suddenly swung forward to reveal two men in similar clothing, save for their colour. The younger man wore white, resembling the ensemble of the man he'd encountered, however less extravagant. The clothing of the older man was gray, like that of the woman who had healed him. But theses were not robes; they were real clothes, not entirely unlike the ones worn in Karse.

The younger man barely glanced at him before speaking rapidly to the one in gray. Gray nodded his head, but did not take his eyes off the boy.

This was the ultimate shock of his life. Creigh took no notice of what the one in white was saying. He could not, and did not want to avert his eyes from the Gray man's face. He could only stare, mouth slightly agape.

There were scars, countless ones, on this man's face. Had he managed to look, he may have noticed that they were on his hands as well. But these were not scars created by deep cuts, not earned in battle or anywhere like it; there was no definite line to them. They were old burns, many, many healed wounds cause by some great fire.

Somehow, for some cold, heart-stopping reason, Creigh knew exactly what had caused them.

"Yes," said the man in perfect, unaccented Karsite. "These are from the Fires, much like the ones you would have endured were you not Chosen by your Companion."

Creigh snapped his mouth shut at once. And then everything, the fear of being captured, the confusion, the anger towards his captives for treating him so unfairly, exploded from him in that one moment.

"You're Karsite!" he yelled, face twisted furiously. "You're one of them! Is this what they do? They take children from Karse right out of the Fires and brainwash them to be their puppets?"

The older man was apparently unaffected by his onslaught of accusations, and did not so much as flinch. The man in white however, was staring at Creigh with wide eyes. It was to Creigh's shock, however, that there lay a robust, defensive glint in those youthful eyes. He did not succeed in fazing the Gray man, but his companion looked ready knock out teeth, and most likely would have, had the Gray man not been there.

"I am," said the Gray man. "But we do not brainwash people, least of all children. As for myself, I was scarcely younger than I am today when I first came to Valdemar. My Companion crossed into Karsite land to reach me, just as your own Donli has done."

"Companion…" Creigh shook his head. He was standing now, realizing that he had leapt off his bed during his outburst. "Your witch-beasts? You sent a horse across the border to _find_ me?"

"Not horses," said the man. "Companions. A horse is an animal, while our Companions are…" There was a pause, as if he were listening closely to someone, though no one spoke. "Beings. Not animals."

An image of the great white beasts -- or beings, apparently -- fighting for their rider's lives flashed into Creigh's mind. Even if he had an argument, he would not be able to deny the unusual intelligence of the creatures.

Not to mention how one _spoke_ to him. But surely all of that was a dream…wasn't it?

_:Not at all.:_

Creigh jumped back and very nearly fell over his bed. While he fought to control his balance, he _felt_ something move into his mind. A presence, not unlike the one he'd felt on the battlefield, suddenly flooded his thoughts.

"Remain calm," the Gray man told him. "That is your Companion, Donli. Until now, he had been blocked from your mind. Because you now recognize him as your Companion, not an animal, you are able to hear each other. As it should be."

"_Should_ be?" Creigh spat, rubbing his temples. "I don't want him in my mind! How do I block him out?"

_:Please don't:_ came the voice again. It was quiet and pliant. _:It does cause me a great deal of stress. I am sorry if you feel encroached upon, Chosen. Please understand. I won't always be here. We are still two very separate beings. I am me, you are you.:_

"Chosen?" Creigh shut his eyes. "Why me? What if I don't want to become one of your puppets? Don't I get a choice?"

At this, the older man raised an eyebrow, as if something were amusing him. Creigh did not know it, but what he had just said was something very similar to what the Gray man had said when he was Chosen. Either way, he didn't like the look on the old man's face. It reminded him of the lieutenant -- no, the Sunpriest who had ended his life with that one, critical moment of betrayal.

"You have your choice," said the man at last. "But first, I believe it would be better to hear the terms for your options."

Creigh gave him a strange look. He didn't have to voice the fact that he was confused -- that was clear enough without a word being said.

"Creigh is you name, is it not?"

The boy opened his mouth, and then closed it, stunned.

"You are sixteen years old. You once lived in a village named Leindal. Your father is a farmer and you have no siblings," the man went on considerately. "These things my Companion tells me, for your Companion has told him."

"How-" Creigh began to say.

"The terms are these," interrupted the man, crossing his arms. "Should you choose to return to Karse, your bond with you Companion will dissolve. It is very painful, and lasts for a very long time. It is far more painful than losing even your closest friend. Furthermore, you will be sought for everywhere you go. When caught, they will offer you to their Fires."

Creigh could only look on blankly. This too, was something undeniable. As for the separation being painful…well, what reason was there to not believe him?

_:That is very true:_ said Donli, startling him not for the first time. _:Again, I beg of you to not do this. I can't imagine…losing my Chosen.:_

He could not imagine losing his Companion, actually. But there was no time to dwell on it. He raised his eyes to see the Gray man watching him carefully.

_:Herald Alberich,:_ Donli provided solemnly. _:He is the Weaponsmaster here. Most respect him, and he is very good at what he does. I haven't yet encountered a Companion that dislikes him.:_

That would explain why the man had not yet introduced himself. Perhaps he was waiting for Donli to give him that information. It was a very quick and easy source for exchanging knowledge, Creigh admitted to himself (and possibly Donli as well) but he was still uncomfortable about it.

"Now," said Herald Alberich. "Should you wisely choose to remain here, you will be enrolled as a Trainee at the Collegium. You will be trained in mind as well as heart and body. Weapons-" he paused, to stress the point "-scholarly classes, and training your Gift."

"I won't take part in such an unholy place," said the boy through his teeth.

"Not unholy," objected Alberich. "Only different. There is the same Sunlord on both sides of the border. The Sunpriests spread rumours of Valdemar that mark the Heralds as witches possessed with dark powers. The night-demons they conjure to terrorize Karsite people into believing them."

This was a lot of information to swallow at once. Creigh became aware of another ache in the back of his head. No bludgeon from a Companion's hoof was this, however. It was a headache, growing steadily worse with every word Alberich spoke. What this man was telling him seemed false and true at the same time. There was no possible way to be sure, especially not today.

As if the Weaponsmaster had read his mind (and through Donli, quite possible had), he lowered his arms to his sides and softened his expression. Slightly.

"We will not prevent you from resting any longer. You must think about your choices and decide what you feel is best for you and your Companion. Perhaps tomorrow, a tour of the Collegium can be arranged. That too, is yours to decide."

Creigh only glowered, but managed a stiff nod. Alberich seemed pleased with the boy's consent, however reluctant it was.

"To Selenay, I must hasten," said the Weaponsmaster, addressing the other man in Valdemarian. "Progress, I believe she is expecting. I hope to not disappoint her."

The other man chuckled and agreed with a word that Creigh did not recognize. He had little interest in this white-clad Demon-Rider, however. He was content enough to silently provoke the man with wary glares -- evident reminders that no trust was gained today and that he _still_ did not like Demon-Riders or their Companions.

_:Heralds, Chosen,:_ said his (_his!_) Companion. _:You must at least accept that it is possible Herald Alberich tells the truth. He too, had difficulties adjusting to our ways. You will find that you both have unseen similarities.:_

"This man is Mical," said Alberich, before Creigh could conjure a response. "His knowledge of Karsite is incomplete, but conversational. He will remain here at the salle until morning. Should you need to question him, he will provide you with answers."

"Depending on the question," added Mical, in a form of Karsite that was just as misplaced as Alberich's syntax. "I'm not as wise as my old Weaponsmaster."

"Mock me not," Alberich warned. "Authority over your Hurlee training, I still have."

"Yes, sir, Captain, sir," said Mical. Even as a full-fledged Herald, his mischievous streak lived on.

Alberich's dark eyes traveled to Creigh once more. "Will you consider what we have discussed?"

"Yes."

It was flat with multiple undertones of distaste and doubt, but it was still agreement. Alberich set his mouth into a line and turned, exiting the room. Mical lingered for another moment, shot a last inquiring look at the boy, and followed the Weaponsmaster down the stairs.

And for the third time that day, Creigh found himself alone. Although, this time, he was not _quite_ deserted. And blissfully unaware that his Companion felt his emotions, he let himself dwell in comfort that Donli was _there_.

There was ever so much to think about.


	3. The Queen

**Notes: **Right. Valdemaran. I'm just so lazy, I couldn't pick up the book and flip through the pages to find out. By the way, I've recently started reading the Arrows series, with Talia, and I have a good idea of the timeline now. To answer some inevitable questions, this fanfiction takes place a year after Exile's Valor, eight years before Arrows of the Queen takes place...

Moving on.…this chapter is basically the calm before the storm. However, if you want a REALLY good laugh and perhaps a few tears as well (depending on your emotional stability, of course) I suggest you read through it thoroughly. The real laughs and the serious consequences come in a few chapters, after Creigh's training begins. (Yes, he does become a Trainee…that much is obvious.)

**Disclaimer: **Consult previous chapter.

----------------------------------------------------------------

The air in the hall outside Selenay's room was slightly stale, stagnant with both the heat of midsummer and the sheer lack of windows. Even though the sun was an hour or so from setting, it was clearly enjoying itself beating the landscape mercilessly with its rays. Alberich caught himself almost wishing winter would arrive sooner.

That, of course, would mean more Hurlee. Nothing, not even this cursed heat, was worse than that.

Still, again, he found himself _almost_ wishing he had worn his Whites this morning instead of his gray uniform. There was no law against it after all, especially when he preferred not being baked to death before the day was out. At least his Whites would have warded off most of this heat, instead absorbing it as his uncomfortable Grays were.

_:Aren't you being a bit overworked by the fact that you're warm?: _said his Companion. _:You can't beat the heat, no matter how you dress or what you think of it. In fact, I think a little warm spell is good for you. It builds character.:_

Alberich grimaced. He _assumed_ Kantor was right in part, but then again, the self-satisfying stallion was probably enjoying himself in the nice, cool shade of a tree, basking in the soft, sweet long grass without so much as another care in the world. Such a thought did not encourage him to take his Companion very seriously.

_:Only partly true,:_ Kantor said mildly. _:I am not _basking_, as you so admirably put it There is a difference between lazing about and taking a decent time to rest. I'm quite comfortable here, actually. Yes, in fact, I believe I'll stay here for a while longer.:_

_:You are only resting so happily because your coat is white,: _Alberich put in sensibly. _:It has always been, is certainly now, and always will be. Were you any other colour, you would not be as _comfortable_, as _you_ so admirably put it.:_

He felt a flicker of apprehension from his Companion, but that was all before Alberich was once again left rather alone in the archway leading out from the downstairs corridor. The room, or rather the foyer in front of him was occupied by an assortment of other men and two women.

The women,whom he immediately recognized as Ylsa and Keren, were clearly unhappy about something. This he could tell, even from across the room. Selenay's two Herald bodyguards were busy arguing about something with a pair of Herald men. By the looks of it, they were just as displeasedwith the argument as Ylsa and Keren were.

One of the men was a short, pudgy individual with pasty cheeks and closely croppedhair. There was no mistaking his rank as a Herald. His white garments were fresh, clean, and probably brand new. He was rather young, after all. He was also the less violent of the two Heralds, sputtering a weak complaint every now and then, whenever someone paused to catch their breath.

_  
_

The other man was an ironic companion for the plump Herald. He was tall, perhaps slightly taller than Alberich, with a face with as many angles as the short man's face was round. His hair was long and tied at the base of his neck. It was a very common length for a Valdermaran, but a very unusual colour. Unlike the many blondes, browns and black-haired people populating Haven, this man had rich red-auburn locks that did nothing to compliment his off-angular features. And strangest of all, although his body was lean and obviously well-trained, he had a sort of lanky air about him that made Alberich suspect certain clumsiness as well.

The Weaponsmaster approached the mess stealthily, drawing closer only when he was certain that their attention was fixed on each other and not himself. As he did so, the words of their heated argument became clear.

"-out of the question! If you two don't remove yourselves from the Palace _now_, I'll see to it that _both_ of your interns are suspended!"

"Mighty well a reward for what we did!" protested the taller one. "Very fine, indeed! Moleres sprained an ankle, don't you know. Did it trying to scoop that boy off the ground on a run, we did!"

"Ah, well," the chubbier one offered gently. "T-t-twisted it, is more like it. And, well, I th-thought Raythen and I-"

"What's more is we weren't to see him!" snipped the first Herald. "The Healers forbade it, as if they thought we weren't worried!"

"Oh _shut up_, Jale," said Ylsa. "You're just using one excuse after the other and they're not going to work. And I'm _not_ letting you bother Selenay any longer. For the last time, with all due respect, get _lost_."

There was a long pause after that in which Jale drew back slightly, his pointed nose tilted up slightly in a rather nervous and persistent way. The other, whom Alberich assumed could only be Garan, looked ready to jump at the sound of a pin drop. In this time, Keren happened to glance Alberich's way. A look of intense relief, much to his surprise, flooded her face.

"Thank the Havens," she breathed. The remaining Heralds chose this moment to suddenly notice the Weaponsmaster. "Someone who knows how to deal with these two. I never thought I would be this happy to see _your_ face this early, Alberich."

Jale and Garan were clearly _not_ happy to find their former weapons teacher standing behind them. Ignorant of their sudden change of face colour, Alberich then surveyed them with a slightly raised brow and no betrayal of his amusement behind his placid mask. This had exactly the effect on the two newly promoted internees that he'd hoped for. They dropped their gazes simultaneously.

"Unless false my information was, one of you an injury has suffered?" he inquired with no amount of effort put into correcting his use of the language. Let them know they weren't worth it, that their presence here was a nuisance.

In response, their gazes briefly flickered towards Garan's left leg. A bandage was wrapped tightly around his thigh, and slightly soiled with blood. The wound was not grave, but its sincerity was enough for a Healer to demand the man to remain in bed. In fact, Alberich had no doubt the Healers _had_ demanded such a thing. That made the fact that they were here, instead of there, even more irritating.

"He can walk," Jale offered feebly. "Can't you, Garan? Right as ducks, you can."

Garan hesitated, but before he could open his mouth to reply, Ylsa interjected.

"You bet mule's droppings he's ready to walk!" she snapped. "You dragged him here in his injured state just so could feel secure about yourself! What kind of friend does that?"

Jale looked as if Ylsa had branded him with a hot iron. As the gangly Herald fumbled with his words for another few moments, Alberich finally lost his patience.

"Injured? See a Healer!" he barked and strode right between them to stop at the Queen's door. He turned around. "Waste not the time of the Queen! If here you two remain when I am done, _I _will see your internships suspended indefinitely."

_That_ sent a chill down the backs of the young Heralds. Garan glanced between Alberich and Jale with an almost painful expression. When the taller Herald made no move, he finally made it clear that he _was_ able to make some decisions himself and began to retreat. He hobbled and limped like a three-legged dog, but he somehow managed to disappear from sight in no time at all. Jale looked stunned at being so abruptly abandoned. With another disappointed glance at Selenay's closed door, he turned and stalked after his companion.

When they were gone, Keren let out a long sigh. "Alberich, there are times I wonder what life would be like without you."

"I don't," Ylsa countered.. "I'd rather not think of a Collegium with pranksters and miscreants running wild and no blade to smack some sense into them."

"Difficult they are to teach," he agreed, with the leniency in his voice that no present or former student had ever experienced first-hand. "Until true battle they have seen, they will not learn. The Queen?"

"She's inside," Ylsa informed him. A thoughtful expression crossed her face. "I heard about that new Trainee. How is he handling the 'new' Valdemar?"

Alberich allowed her a tight smile. "He is surviving."

They nodded, clearly untroubled with letting him pass. Alberich left them to their duties and entered the private Queen's chambers-turned-nursery. He eyed the room suspiciously – this was his first visit to Selenay's rooms since he'd once delivered her home from a practice, before the battle with the Tedrel soldiers. Much of it, if not all, had changed.

Selenay did not spend very much time tending to her baby daughter, for work nearly forbade it. Even so, the child apparently lived and slept in the same room as her mother, for the floor was strewn with toys and blankets. Alberich calmly stepped over them, then taking note of the crib tucked safely away in the corner of the room, nearest to a door. That door, he assumed, was passage for the child's nurse whenever she woke in the middle of the night.

Baby Elspeth herself was currently cradled in Selenay's arms. The young queen was rocking Elspeth back and forth, doing the 'baby-calming' dance to soothe the screaming child. She was obviously doing a poor job of it, since her jerky movements did little more than to make the shrill cries worse. When Selenay turned around, she bore a weary expression of surprise.

"Alberich-" she started to say. Then her surprise turned to reserved irritation. "Wait. Before you say anything at all, _please_ take Elspeth off my hands for one second. I have to summon her nurse, or I'm going to go positively _mad._"

He was given no choice of the matter. In a matter of a moment, the shrieking one-year-old was deposited into his arms, tears, flailing arms and all. The poor girl almost slipped through his fingers, but he reflexively caught her and tried to imitate the cradling-sitting position Selenay had been using to keep the child _off_ the floor.

The Queen appeared not to notice his bewildered look or the fact that he'd nearly dropped her daughter. Instead, she thanked him shortly, turned on her heel and disappeared through the doorway near the crib. Unhappy child and unfortunate Weaponsmaster were left alone.

Alberich stood in the middle of the room, bearing a howling babe who clung mercilessly to the front of his shirt. There appeared to be absolutely nothing _wrong_ with the child, other than the fact her mother had gone away. Then again, she had been bawling just as fiercely before the Queen had left. Whatever was ailing her she was evidently not going to share either, which made his impromptu charge even more of a mystery to him.

Then the unexpected happened. Although Alberich did nothing whatsoever to provoke the crying babe out of her state of tantrum, an eerie, almost deafening quietness suddenly settled over the room. Elspeth had opened her eyes while taking a moment to gulp and catch her breath, realized that she was no longer in the arms of her mother, and became very still. She was staring directly _at_ him, as if he were the very first sight of his kind she'd ever seen.

Then again, he most likely was.

Elspeth continued to stare incredibly at him with her tiny mouth agape, and one finger hooked off to one side of it. She looked to be all that wasn't that wailing monster she had been a moment ago. In fact, had some stranger happen to wander in at that exact time, they would have thought she was an angel.

Someone _did_ happen to walk in just then, although it was no stranger. It was Selenay who strode briskly into the room again, clearly not realizing the absence of her daughter's howling until the sight stopped her dead in her tracks. The Queen stood like a straw dummy, raw, unveiled shock seizing her face.

The girl giggled rather happily. "Mama," she gurgled, waggling an arm towards her mother that made her wishes as plain as if they had been branded on the wall.

In a trance, Selenay swooped forward to reclaim little Elspeth from the blank-faced Weaponsmaster. "How…?"

Alberich only proposed a small shrug that admitted that he did not know, either. His experience with children any younger than nine was limited, and even then, the experience he had was full of hard blows and sharp, verbal corrections. That was certainly not something to make a child _stop_ crying.

Not that he ever had to deal with crying children, at least, not during training. Whether it was luck or circumstance, the majority of soft-fingered, spoiled babies that needed weapons training were given to private tutors by their parents. Most of those Alberich taught were somewhat more self-composed. But not always.

Another woman rushed into the room, saw Elspeth, and dove on the mother and child like a worried hen. Selenay sighed with relief as her charge finally returned to the hands of her well-trained nurse, and let her daughter go with little regret. Of course, Elspeth immediately let out a loud hiccup when she left her mother's arms. And before the girl was through the door again with nurse, she had begun to wail. Her cries echoed through the halls until they became no more than a distance prickling of a noise.

"Alberich, I swear…if I had not already found Elspeth a second nurse, I would hire you without a fear or doubt," said the Queen. She was evidently exhausted. "Then again, I just might have to settle for two. That child is becoming more of a handful and a nuisance every day."

She seemed to notice the touch of chagrin behind his mask. To his further displeasure, she grinned at him.

"Don't look at me like that, oh wise and kind big brother," she jested at him. "To think you would stand up to fifty well-trained soldiers and not blink an eye, but you're put off by a baby. Thank you, by the way. I'm sorry to have to put you on the spot, but…well, she's _difficult_." She hesitated. "Is something wrong?"

To this, Alberich shook his head. "Do not apologize. Many ways there are, a Queen to protect, even from madness. For your question; no. It is I who must apologize for intruding, uncalled. Have you heard of the new Trainee, of Karse?"

"The boy named Creigh?" was her diluted answer. "Yes, Talamir spoke to me about him a few hours ago. I'm glad Donli made it safely, anyway. To go across the enemy border willingly-" she sighed as she spotted a nearby chair, and sat down. "I was sure only your Kantor was stubborn enough to attempt it, but here I stand-- sit, corrected."

"Stubborn, and foolish-" Alberich's face hardened again, then relaxed. "The right thing, yes, but a dangerous trial it is. Not the end of his problems as well, of that I am sure."

"That's right. The classes, his Gifts training, and weapons. Surviving _you_ was trouble enough for me, I cannot imagine how a boy with absolutely _no_ training is going to live through a week."

"His trials do not end there," he promised her. "Of those you named, all correct are, yet one more you have not mentioned."

"Oh?" she said sleepily, tagging a yawn.

Alberich allowed her to slowly slide back into her senses before he went on. "Impossible to avoid, it will be, to see around this. The boy knows no danger in his saying yet, and reasons not the consequences of being a Trainee. Inside the salle, training fields, I have authority to protect him from other Trainees. His Companion and others in the Companion's Field give him sanctuary. Not I, no Companion, no Herald can protect him elsewhere."

To his mild surprise, she set a faint smile about this, as if what he'd just told her was old news. "I suppose you're right about that," she said softly. "Did that stop you?"

If she had expected him to not find an answer to this, she was sorely mistaken. Despite the fact that the meaning behind her question was unintentional, he still felt as if he were somehow being thwarted by her ability to read him.

"This is not the same. When Chosen, I was not a boy, as for consequences I was better trained. He has not the secure position of Weaponsmaster Second to shield him. Friends who understand, he has not."

"He has you."

Of all things he expected her to say, this was not one of them. Clearly, he must have looked as if she had elbowed him in the back, for she leaned back in the velvety chair and sighed deeply.

"Honestly, I do believe you have a good grasp on the situation," she told him, her eyes closed and her voice hoarse from fatigue. "I trust your judgment as much as I do my own, and I _trust_ you'll put that good judgment to _good_ use. I mean it," she added, in prediction to the lingering doubt he might have.

If he had not taken that as a dismissal, he would have discredited his own name. Not to mention the side-long stare she was giving him through half-opened eyes. Alberich nodded stiffly in consent that the subject be dropped, although by no means did it leave him settled. He was startled, yet again, when she laughed.

"You look as if you've just agreed to stab yourself in the foot," she explained. "Well, stop it. You've had plenty of new students who couldn't tell a sword from a bucket. Plenty more who have been at the blunt end of a joke more than a few times. Let's put it this way: you're from Karse, and the students are absolutely petrified that you'll peg them to the wall one day for not memorizing their practices. Creigh is also from Karse. I'll wager anything the other Trainees will put one and one together."

This had not occurred to him. If Selenay was right, then it was _his_ own influence that would somehow pivot the boy through his first stage of Trainee-to-Trainee obstacles. If somehow, _somehow_ he managed to encourage the boy's self-defensive urge to prove himself, there was no questioning the effect it would have with the other Trainees.

"A conclusion, I believe I have come to see," he said gravely. Her eyes opened again.

"To the problem?"

"No. That you are no longer just Selenay, but a true Queen. In whole, lacking nothing."

She rose a little, enough to stare at him quizzically. "And what, pray tell me, does that mean?"

"Simply that. You are willing for sacrifice, understand those you rule, for the feelings of those you have not met, you care." The corner of his mouth turned up slightly. "And perhaps, a terrible taste in nurses you have."

Selenay's mouth dropped, but only for a brief instant. She snapped it shut and brought a hand to cover her face. "I know I'm just contradicting myself, but…Alberich, was that a pun?"

This time, his face split into a wide smile. "Not possible. No sense of humor have I. All-"

"Yes, yes, I know. 'All know this'," she mocked, imitating his accent lavishly. "All right, now you have ten seconds to take your leave before I sic Talamir on you."

_:Chosen, I do believe she's serious,:_ his Companion informed him placidly.

_:As do I,: _Alberich sent in return. _:Perhaps I have overstayed my welcome.:_

_:A fine observation. You do realize that you now have _five_ seconds left before she follows through on that promise.:_

He was well out the door by the time Kantor told him this. Only a split moment after the door clicked behind him, a loud burst of uncontrollable giggling could be heard from the other side. He paused for a moment, giving both Ylsa and Keren a look before striding forward again.

As the sound of his footsteps faded away, the two Heralds turned to stare at the door. Then they exchanged glances. Ylsa shrugged, and the topic of consideration was forgotten.

But for all their premonitions, fate happened to have other ideas.


	4. The Boy

**Notes: **

Lesson number one: Never allow your mother near the computer when you're still logged into it.

Lesson number two: Explain to your parents what will happen when they review your stories while STILL logged into your account.

Lesson number three: Stop your parents COMPLETELY.

**Replies: **

Tessabe made a fine point in, uh, her...his...her/his review. I meant 'apprehension', by the way...you confuse me. And yes, Alberich recognizes the two Heralds, it was just for the sake of the readers I added their descriptions. As for what they were trying to do...well, you'll see soon enough.

It's interesting you say that, Triaxx2...Why? You'll see soon enough. And boy, when those Trainees pull that prank on Alberich...they're gonna wish he _had_ a sense of humour. Whoo -- will they ever! Thanks for reviewing.

Oh, speaking of pranks...just wait another chapter or two. Please believe me. It'll be worth it! I just gotsta put the plot in motion before I dish out the twists...heh heh heh...

**Disclaimer: **Consult previous chapter.

----------------------------------------------

Creigh learned a few things over the next three days. For one, the Healers at this 'Collegium' place were hardly anything like the Priests back in the villages at home. The Priests would sooner sell the robes on their backs than waste their time Healing a farm boy with a small concussion. In fact, he could have stumbled onto their grand doorstep with two severed arms and dagger in his back; the most he would have received would have been a polite nudge with their fine linen boots and a warning to not soil the sacred steps of their holy place.

The Healers here acted as if a mace had brained him.

He was rather active the morning after his visitor from the Karsite Armsmaster and Herald Mical. His usual grogginess had dwindled to a mere headache, though he no longer felt dizzy. On the other hand, he'd hardly made it to the door of his sweet-smelling prison before a man in green robes bustled in and spoke harshly to him in Valdemaran. Creigh understood very little, distinguishing the multiple uses of 'no', 'healed' and 'bed' amidst the Healer's jabbering.

Creigh obeyed reluctantly. And so, he spent the next few days sitting in bed, eating the warm food and drink they brought him with less skepticism after every meal. He was bored, it drove him nearly mad, and there was little more he could do than wait out this invisible illness they had wrapped about him.

There were no mirrors in his room, so it was blatantly impossible to see just how _bad_ his head wound was. It certainly wasn't serious; there was no gaping hole in his skull, no puncture that constantly bled or threatened his mental well-being. The gash the Companion's hooves left was fading quickly, even though it stung whenever he managed to brush it against something.

Luckily for him, the wound was well hidden beneath his thick, light brown hair. He enjoyed keeping it short, even though his mother used to fuss over the way it constantly stuck out and made his head look like the back of a porcupine.

As for the rest of him, there was not much to be impressed about. He had a strong build, however wiry; the results of being a farm hand for the majority of his life. Hard work had built some muscles on his normally thin frame, but a diet of sheer wheat and poultry had shaped him into a lightweight, in some places angular, stiff-jawed youth. There was some definition to his cheekbones, but it was likely that no amount of fattening would reshape them.

Not that he was expecting any amount of fattening at all. After all, these Heralds could hardly be any different from the soldiers in Karse, nor the Collegium differ at all from the normal kind of training camp. The only difference was the horse-

_Companion_, he reminded himself. Or at least, he thought he reminded himself. It was difficult to tell whether Donli had planted that idea in his mind, or he really was beginning to accept that these ghostly beasts were any different from the warhorses he'd once thought them to be.

But the brief conversations with his Companion were all that kept him from lapsing into delirium. He was grateful to have someone to talk to, seeing as no one else bothered to notice his current state of absolute boredom.

Finally, on the third morning since the 'encounter', he heard a roughly familiar voice somewhere outside his door. Then came the sound of approaching footsteps -- only one this time, but nothing quite like the quiet footfalls of the Healers that passed by his room.

Someone opened the door and stepped into the room. It was Mical. Creigh breathed a sigh of relief, then cut it short. It was too late -- the Herald had already noticed.

"You don't look so sick to me," the Herald observed, pausing in the doorframe. "How do you feel?"

Creigh was glad enough to _hear_ Karsite again, let alone get the chance to speak it. "I'm fine," he said breezily. "I would rather this was a dream, but other than that, I'm fine."

"Good. Fantastic," said Mical. "Now, if you'll come with me, we'll start with Training Fields."

Creigh was too stunned and confused to speak. It took a moment or two of Mical's insistent staring for him to recover.

"Come with you?" he said at last. "I thought the Healers-"

"Them?" Mical grinned broadly, displaying a neat set of clean teeth that gave the impression of mischievous imp. "They won't bother us. They're always looking for some excuse to keep us Heralds, or in your case, Trainees in beds, stretchers, casts, bandages and the lot. Geri insists that they're concerned for us is all, but I'm certain they just like it when we're helplessly under their control."

There was something about the way the Herald spoke that reminded Creigh of Leindal. Not just Leindal, in fact, but another young man he'd known for almost his entire life. But that man, an older boy really, had been enlisted as a soldier to patrol borders in Northwestern Karse. The last he'd ever heard of him was a rumor that "Leindal's boy" had made the rank of major. There was no doubt that he was just learning about Leindal's recent tragedy. Either that, or he was dead.

"First things first," Mical rambled on, more or less to himself than to Creigh. "See if we can get a decent Trainee's uniform before there's a mad scramble for them when Midsummer's over."

Creigh both disliked and appreciated the fact that this Herald didn't mention the so-called 'choice' Alberich had proposed on him. He'd already decided what his fate would be, and done so in less than a moment after they had left his room. No doubt the Armsmaster already knew what he would choose, or else Mical would be much more careful with his words.

Or would he? Creigh was starting to feel that this Herald scarcely did what _anyone_ told him to do, if that.

"Donli-" he began to say, before he could stop himself.

"Already tacked up and waiting. He misses you, in case he didn't mention," Mical assured him. With a face that open and cheerful, how could anyone _not_ believe him? "Ready to go?"

Ready or not, Creigh was convinced, did not matter. Truthfully, he knew he was stuck with no chance of release -- or escape, for that matter. Outside this school, or 'Collegium' as they made a point to call it, he would sooner be found out and given to the Fires before he found another refuge. _If_ he found another refuge.

He tilted his head towards the young Herald. "Ready enough," he agreed tonelessly. _Let him be the judge_, he decided. _I won't let him think I'm taking this all willingly_.

After all, there was no reason to believe was _wanted_ here.

No reason at all.

--------------------------------------------

Alberich's visits to Haven were becoming less frequent, farther apart and none too successful with each attempt. Either everything was all right in the world, or something was very, very wrong.

He _wanted_ to believe that his imagination was running away with him, that everything was just fine, but he found that he _could_ not. It had been less than a year ago since the assassination attempt against the Queen, with no signs of turmoil in the streets whatsoever. It could be that his numerous disguises were becoming too familiar, or someone was watching him, warning others of his true identity.

Or it could be nothing at all. Perhaps there were no more threats to Selenay or the Heir to contend with. Maybe all that remained was old news and leadless rumours. That could have been it.

Maybe.

He'd left, reluctantly, Mical in charge of the Karsite boy. It was done and undoable, but it didn't ease his thoughts to think of the bad habits the boy might pick up from the newly assigned Herald. Regardless, it was his best choice. To put someone else in such a position, a serious Herald with a biased sense of Valdemaran pride for instance, would likely drive the boy to hate the Collegium and its Heralds even more

No, better it be a fool to teach the boy about Heralds. An experienced fool, yes, but still a fool.

Alberich changed out of the plain hide tunic and breeches he'd adorned for his brief scour of the city. By now, the sun was well below the horizon and the lanterns aligned on the walls of the salle had been lit. The strange, moonless darkness seemed to reflect his sour mood over the night's fruitless expedition. A disturbingly uneventful expedition that had him convinced that _something_ was happening, and he was unable to uncover a single piece of the puzzle.

Despite the disappearance of the sun, the night was still incredibly warm and humid. As he had no intention whatsoever to stay in his furnace-like quarters at the salle, he locked the door behind him and left the training grounds via the field past the multitude of straw dummies. The air was thick with moisture, and yet there somehow managed to stir a small breeze. It could be better felt in open areas, thus his choice of an unusual route to the Herald's Wing.

It just so happened this route took him directly past the Healer's salle, in which he paused momentarily, decided against 'checking in' on the Karsite boy, then moved on. It was likely Mical had already moved him to the Trainee's quarters and somehow managed to settle him in. It was late, also. Many of the patients residing there would be asleep.

He most likely would have made it to the Herald's Wing uneventfully, had slight noise not stopped him in his tracks. It came faintly at first, inciting his interest, so he waited for a second or two. Then it came again. It was a sound he knew well, and had grown to loathe.

-the sound of children laughing.

Not just any children, mind - these were boys, and by the sound of it, there were more than half a dozen at least. Not young children, either. Older ones, likely to be Trainees rather than servants. Alberich had never once caught a servant out of their quarters past curfew.

Trainees, on the other hand, were a different story entirely.

He resumed a careful pace, keeping it slow and casual. Only when the laughter rang out again was he confident that no one was scouting him, and therefore no one would return to his friends to warn them. Apparently, the miscreant pack of boys were engulfed in whatever pleasure activity they had chosen to break the rules for.

First mistake. He was delighted, a grim sort of delight over catching the renegades at their false play. That morbid delight lasted for another second or so, before it was replaced by pure, cold outrage.

Another sound had reached his ears, echoed by the same faceless laughing as before. The first sound however, had not been a laugh of any kind, but a muffled yell; one of both pain and anger. He heard something else, although much fainter and much more difficult to place. There was no need to identify it. Alberich was already quite sure what was going on.

Stealth be damned, the Weaponsmaster turned on one heel and began to run towards the source of the disruption. The House of Healing and the Healer's Collegium were attached, both darkened and quiet while their residents slept. It was not from here the trouble was fermenting, but a smaller building some thirty yards away a tack shed used by Chosen and their Companions.

The shed was a two-sided structure with a roof and a few half-stalls on its perimeter. No one stationed here during the night. It was the perfect place to create mischief, or worse, a bullying mob.

Alberich's steps immediately fell silent as he reached the closest wall. The boys were no longer laughing, but the quieter sounds of sniffling and sobbing were evident. Setting his jaw firmly, Alberich slipped effortlessly into a shadowy corner around the tack stalls. From here, he had a clear view of what was happening.

There were eight of them, all dressed in their blue Guard trainee uniforms. They were all students, obviously, the oldest looking no older than fifteen or sixteen – it was difficult to be precise in the dark, as there was but one lantern to illuminate the area. On the ground, not far from the apparent leader of the group, was a figure hunched over in the half-shadows. He could not determine the colour of the stricken boy's clothing, but it was definitely light, not dark.

"Still not going to talk?" sneered the 'leader'. "Filthy, ugly, Karsite piglet! It's not even worth wiping your nose at! Look at it!"

The chorus of jittery laughs flared in his ears, but Alberich barely heard them. He suddenly knew, washed over with the realization of _whom_ the highborn brat was referring to. The term 'Karsite' was as mind numbing as the hollow tone of the Death Bell, the way it was spoken.

The boy on the ground was Creigh.

It took sheer force of will to stay hidden, to _not_ bear down on the group and send cuffs flying in every direction. A moment buzzed by when a sort of shaky, but defiant voice broke the still air.

As diminished as he was, the figure on the ground managed to lift his head a little and spit one of the most creative curses Alberich ever heard at his tormentors. And it was spoken all in Karsite, so that no one but the Weaponsmaster understood. It left a bitter taste in his mouth. That lad was brave indeed, but he had just summoned upon himself yet another savage beating.

Unless, the boy was purposely trying to provoke the mob. It certainly seemed that way, especially considering his current condition. But then, _why_? Only the utterly daft and death-wishing fool would intentionally put himself through that kind of agonizing torture.

It dawned upon him after a moment. The boy wasn't daft at all, but astonishingly _smart_. There was no doubt he was provoking the other boys, not to earn another skirmish, but to force them into doing their evil deeds in front of a teacher, to prevent them from denying all involvement.

The boy had _seen_ him.

And still, Alberich had absolutely no intention on letting another blow fall. Certainly the Karsite boy was brave, _very_ brave in fact, but he was clearly unaware of Valdemar's justice system. Alberich did not need to see a single rash act to be sure of the terrible events that had taken place. He just needed a reason, and everything else would simply follow.

The restless group was murmuring now, as if disturbed by their victim's surprisingly forceful display of defiance. A few even stepped back, but made no implication that they were going to run. Why should they? Their prey was cornered, and his weak attempt to curse them away was little more than a distraction.

A smirk flashed across the face of the oldest. His fist raised to poise beside the mad glint in his eye. "Say g'night, Karsite."

The moment before that, one of the taller, nervous-looking student happened to glance over his shoulder. His jaw dropped and trembled when he saw who 'chanced' to be standing there, half-concealed by shadows. He started to squeak a warning to his friends–

Too late.

Alberich melted out his dark corner, crossing the distance to the aggressor in three brief strides. With none too gentle a hand, he seized the back of boy's collar and hauled him away from his target, ignoring his strangled cry of surprise. The Armsmaster swung the student around so that he struggled helplessly in front of the remaining perpetrators.

Every one of them had gone pale, whiter than the hide of a Companion on a sunny day. Two of them swore, loudly, and scrambled to abandon the shed and their companions. The rest continued to stare dumbly.

Alberich allowed them a minute's grace before he spoke. "A game, this is?" he said, keeping his tone low and calm. Chillingly calm.

The oldest whimpered pathetically, drawing a scowl from the Armsmaster. "This is no crime, you claim? No one for this fool will speak?"

"Y-You don't...understand, sir," one of them finally spoke. "We was...we were going to take him to the Healers..."

"We just...found him this way," said another daring voice. "Like...like that."

He had expected a lie, and there it was. Steeling his expression, the Armsmaster let his arm down an inch. Then he released his captive, who immediately flung himself around and backed away into the midst of his cohorts. They, on the other hand, took an obvious step away from him.

Seeing the relief reflect in their collective gazes, Alberich smiled. That smile in which no student ever wanted to see their Weaponsmaster use.

"Move, you will not," he said. "Or your training privileges I will remove, and of your transgression, informed you families will be."

Apparently, his warning got through their thick skulls, for there was not even a trace of movement left in their midst. Then, regardless of the humidity, the air in the shed seemed to grow colder. In this frozen respite, Alberich aimed an ironically fiery glare above their heads, took a step back, then crouched on the ground. He placed a hand on Creigh's shoulder-

-only to learn that it was _not_ Creigh. When the boy looked up, a pair of surprised, green eyes took him in. The boy's face quickly drained of colour, until it closely resembled the horrified expressions of his oppressors.

"Y-you're not one of them…are you?" the youth croaked in perfect, yet heavily accented Valdemaran. "I swear I didn't do nothing…"

Alberich wasn't sure whether 'them' referred to the bullies, or Valdemarans in general. In either case, responding 'yes' to either case seemed likely to frighten the boy even more. As of the moment, Alberich was intensely curious as to who he was and why he seemed so unusually Karsite, when that fact would be entirely impossible. Unless this was one of the child refugees…

No, almost everyone one of those children rescued after the Tedrel battle had been adopted into other families. Very few had remained behind at the Collegium to train as students, as Healers, Bards, and members of the Guard. Those children he knew by name and sight, and this boy was not one of them.

So he juggled between two answers for a moment, before abandoning them both for another. "An enemy you will find I am not," he said firmly, tactfully dropping all effort to make his words sound more Valdemaran. "Your mouth works well enough, I see. Then your name, I require."

"H-Haschel...sir," the boy added, as an afterthought. He relaxed – slightly, although he did uncurl himself from his fetal position a minor fraction.

Alberich was surprised to discover that this boy, Haschel, was not even past his tenth winter. Or, if he was, his docile boyish looks were being stubborn in their natural process of weakening. He was exceptionally large for his age, resembling someone closer to the age of fourteen or fifteen. But there was no mistaking the gangly form of body and round features of his face.

This boy was young, _very_ young; too young to be a Trainee. Then he was a page?

_:Not exactly. He's nothing,: _Kantor suddenly 'entered' the back of his mind. _:By that, of course, I mean he's not a page and he's not a student at any of the Collegiums. Daft and Dafter 'rescued' him during the great escape across the border. One of them had enough brains to sense that he had a mind-Gift and hauled him onto his Companion's back before they ran away. We decided you were busy enough with the older one, so we made a point to not tell you.:_

Kantor's Chosen 'sent' him a mental scowl. _:'We', I assume means 'we Companions'. Or is it 'we, the entire Royal Council'?:_

_:A bit of both, actually,: _his Companion admitted with a brush of amusement. _:If it's any solace, Selenay concocted the idea of keeping him a secret, to keep him out of your misery.:_

Misery was not what Alberich would have called this situation. But then again, the Queen knew nothing of the dangers lurking behind highborn boys' grins and taunts.

"Haschel," the Weaponsmaster confirmed impassively. "Able to stand, I trust you are, as badly injured you seem not."

"Yessir," was the solemn Valdemaran reply. The boy then realized that the mark on his head was bleeding and jerked his hand to cover it, averting his eyes embarrassedly.

"Leave it," Alberich ordered him. "Your fault, your injuries are not, and you should not feel ashamed. Those who are responsible, punished will be."

Haschel opened his mouth, as if to say something. His chance to speak was stolen, however, when a loud crash sounded. The oldest of the bullies had clearly lost his nerves over his pending doom and decided to take his chance at fleeing, shoving past his friends and duck out of the opposite side of the shed. He knocked over a stack of empty feed buckets in the process.

Alberich leapt to his feet, but made no attempt to pursue the boy. Instead, he reached out and contacted his Companion with a none-too-gentle shove. _:Kantor!:_

_: I'm one step ahead of you,: _came the almost 'lazy' reply. And sure enough, a split moment later a surprised yell split the night. Alberich didn't even have to strain his eyes to see the trembling figure of the fifteen-year-old back his way out of the safety of the open darkness, into the bleak light of the lantern again.

The ghost-like form of a Companion emerged next. Kantor herded the eldest student back towards the shed with an irritated toss of his head and whicker that was no friendly greeting.

The remaining bullies looked panicked; both of their escape routes were now blocked. On one side, they could try to slip past Alberich. Unlikely. On the other, they had to deal with a Companion, whom seemed to share a disposition with his Chosen. And even though it was likely that they weren't _all_ going to be caught, no one was ready enough to step forward and make the first move.

"A Companion I have, you seem to forget," said Alberich mildly. "Yes, a Herald I am, and because I so am, the law I will confide. Expulsion is the reward should another student you harm. And harm you have done, so know that I will your removal from training be seeing to."

"But he's not-" one of them began to protest.

"Under the Queen's protection this boy has been, since here in Valdemar he arrived," the Weaponsmaster interjected icily. "Each one of you, your names and families I will hear. Now, tell me."

The eldest, whom had nestled himself safely in the midst of his friends once more, took this demand with an open-faced snarl. "You can't rat us out if you don't know who we are! What makes you think we're stupid enough to tell you?"

_:Does he remind you of someone?: _Kantor wanted to know.

Alberich shot his Companion a scarce glance. _:I only wish it weren't so. Believe me or not, I am trying to refrain from making more enemies in the high-born part of Haven.:_

_:Oh, I believe you,:_ the Companion assured him. _:Too bad so many of them can't tell their heads from their tail ends.:_

He laughed at that inwardly, but made no such gesture on the outside. In fact, his expression hadn't yet changed by a fraction since he'd become involved in this late-night mess. Well, perhaps it was time to show a little more sincerity, and a little less mercy.

Whatever confidence the eldest boy had regained faded quickly as Alberich bored down on him. He didn't even move when the Weaponsmaster stood directly over him with a glowering look of disapproval. Fear of his inevitable punishment made him stick to one place like a rock. He simply stood stock-still, trembling and scouring his brain for a belated apology - or was it another witless insult that danced on his lips?

"Your name I do not know," said Alberich; he was forcing his voice to a level something more than a whisper. "This matters little. You are a first year, and nothing of your rank have you learned! You know not that a face, I never forget. A face, perhaps, I shall see while in your classes you are training?"

Judging by the boy's stupid look, he still did not understand _how_ deeply in trouble he was. Nor did he seem to realize that Alberich was not just a Herald, but his soon-to-be Armsmaster as well. His friends, on the other hand, realized that particular fact immediately. And finally, one of their shells cracked open.

"Nivel, s-sir," croaked the skinny one that had first spotted Alberich in the shadows. "Nivel Gadrean. I-I didn't think we'd hurt him…that much, really. I just thought, well, he'd…he _is_ Karsite, isn't he?"

Alberich gave him an almost crippling look. These imbeciles knew even less than he'd thought, if they weren't even remotely educated as to his own background. Apparently, the one or two second-years in this bunch had failed to tell their peers about a few life-saving facts about their Weaponsmaster. Not that it mattered; it was not something he would hold against them, after all.

"If Karsite, evil and deserving cruelty is, then show me. No trained, battle worthy Karsite you will meet for many years, other than myself. Attack me, then how little you know, you will see." There. Let them think about _that_.

Apparently, it was enough to coax a few more names from their babbling mouths. Relvatre, Guire, and Farson were among the high-born mutterings, which not amidst the unexpected things he had experienced that night. Aside from Gadrean, a name more deserving of their good fortune, they were all names he'd heard involved in all assortments of crimes in Haven. None of which he could provide enough proof to bring to justice, however. Unfortunately.

At last, the face of the eldest boy grew red, from either embarrassment or unkempt anger. He turned his head away and spoke through his teeth. "Darte. Graxon. My father…my father will here about you. You think you have the authority to mistreat me like this! Well, you'll see yourself thrown out of the Collegium and into the streets!"

This, Alberich had no trouble disbelieving. Graxon was also a name familiar to him, although in a more amusing sense than the others. Lord Horand Graxon had recently lost many of his estates in a series of bad gambling bets. As of the present, his family was the 'poorest' of the high-born nobles. No wonder his incompetent son was fated to be a City Guard instead of a more dignified profession, like cartography or alchemy. Even less wonder that he'd been dumped into the hands of one of the strictest teachers in the Collegium.

But Darte obviously knew none of this.

_:I don't think it would matter if he was the Heir of Valdemar,: _said Kantor with a flick of his tail. _:No Chosen is _ever_ thrown out. Especially not for forcibly putting a noble brat into line. I think he'd be lucky to set foot in the palace stables after this.:_

"Your homes and your rooms you will return to, now," said the Weaponsmaster. "To the Queen I will take this act of treason, as it is her guest this boy is. Out of my sight, all of you. Go!"

And just like that, every last one of them took off like an arrow from a quivering string. Graxon lingered a second longer to glare and sneer, but only a slight movement of Alberich's hand was needed to send him scrambling after the others.

Haschel was staring wide-eyed when Alberich then turned to him. He was not even fearful anymore, but clearly upset. "Why did you do that, sir?" he said quietly. "Won't they get you into trouble? I'm not worth that, sir, really!"

It was Alberich's turn to stare. _That_ surprised him. "No," he said, strategically using Karsite instead of Valdemaran to hopefully ease whatever misgivings the boy had left. "They will not even try, I think. They were wrong in their actions, and so should Valdemaran law reprimand them. Did they injure you seriously?"

The boy was momentarily caught off guard by the Armsmaster's use of Karsite, but he was quick to recover. "I…don't think so, sir," he replied hesitantly, in the same language. "I'm bruised to the liver, but they didn't break nothing. Are...are you really a Dem- a Herald?"

Alberich nodded hesitantly.

"But…but you're not dressed like one! And your horse-"

_:Companion,: _said Kantor mildly.

"-doesn't look like any kind of witch-beasts I learned about! And your _Karsite_, like me-"

"All of which matters nothing to the Companions, who are not in fact, witch-beasts," came the stern reply. "Just as you have been told Heralds are not witches, I believe. Would you, Haschel of border village Leindal, feel comfortable in the dress of your former enemies?"

The nine-year-old's mouth hung open for a brief moment before he snapped it shut. He shook his head.

"Neither would I," said Alberich. His expression hardened. "For now, you will see a Healer. Tomorrow, I will see that an instructor comes to your room to provide you with whatever needs you see fit. Who was given your charge?"

The boy seemed thoughtful for a moment, even under his mask of purple and yellow bruises. "Her name is…Rena, I think. She's a Healer, from that building-" he pointed towards the Healer's Collegium, wincing as he did do "-and she's really nice. I was s'posed to get a lantern from the shed that she'd left, but _they _quick-jumped me, as if they'd known I was coming all along."

"A mistake they will now forfeit their privileges to," Alberich assured him. "I have…further business tonight, which I must see to. But I will take you back to Healer Rena."

Alberich stated forward, only to realize that Haschel, in his attempt to pursue, had stumbled and fallen down again. The Weaponsmaster frowned slightly and knelt to aid the boy to his feet again, and froze-

Haschel's ankle was swollen to the size of a small apple. It was red and black and purple, obviously broken and obviously _very_ painful. There were tears in the boy's eyes next, which killed any frustration of Alberichs' at the boy's lie. Alberich set his jaw and lifted the boy back onto his uninjured foot.

"I swear I didn' feel it-" Haschel choked, despite the pain. "I thought it was just another bruise."

"You are fortunate Rena is a Healer, or your bruises would take days to heal," put Alberich mildly. "The pain you feel now is the least of your problems, however. She will need to concentrate on warding away infections, which can intensify pain for a matter of hours."

He heard the boy whimper, and did not condemn him for it. He knew how the healing process was for open wounds, and this poor child just happened to have many of them. Unconsciously, Alberich's gaze drew closer to his Companion.

_:Oh, spare me the look,: _said a disgruntled Kantor. _:What kind of glorious symbol of kindheartedness would I be if I didn't offer to carry him? At least he'll be lighter on the back than you, my pile-of-bricks Chosen.:_

_:You could easily carry twice my weight across the Hardorn border and back before you felt a difference,: _Alberich informed him somberly. :_Try to avoid jolting his leg. The child's been through enough for one day.:_

The boy was brave, and managed to make no sound as Alberich aided him onto Kantor's back. At first, Haschel appeared nervous to be mounting a creature he would have found terrifying beyond reason just a few days ago. But he relaxed soon enough, clearly putting a great deal of trust in the Chosen of this Companion he now rode. This in turn, relaxed Alberich a little.

He delivered the shaking boy to the Healers and made a swift exit before they could smother him with embarrassing praise. Rena, in fact, had met him outside the building, having prepared to set out and search for the overdue boy herself. It made his disappearance much easier, and with one encouraging nod to the boy, he retreated.

In less than a week, the Midsummer break would end. By then, he hoped to have uncovered whatever unpatriotic events were happening in Haven, before he became too busy to visit the city regularly. Tonight, maybe, his attempts would prove to be rewarding.

With that in mind, he abandoned his idea of returning to the Herald's Wing. He went to the salle and changed his clothing, before setting out to the city.

The night was very young indeed.


	5. The Lesson

**Notes: **Bad stuff's been happening lately. Some good stuff. Mostly bad. Anyway, I'm getting around to updating at last…

**Replies:**

Neither would I, Triaxx2. Neither would I. As there were several 'looks' in this chapter, I have no dimply clue what you mean, but…hmm. Opinions are very appreciated in the land of my insanity. Thank you for reviewing! Nice attention to detail, by the way. Cool beans.

Ai, and since I know both Tessabe and Wizard116 from The Collegium, there's really no need for a review response, eh? See you two around!

**Shameless Plugging: **Come join us Mercedes Lackey fans! We're at The Collegium! Click on the link in my bio to get there! Yaaay!

**Disclaimer: **Consult previous chapter.

Five times, Creigh tried to take the parchment out of his pocket and stuff in the drawer beside his bed. Five times, he ended up leaving the single, undecorated room with it folded innocently inside of his belt. He tried not to think about it as he followed his daily routine, pretending and sometimes forgetting it was there at all. But it _was_ there, at the end of every day when he got undressed. And no one seemed to take notice until, out of desperation, Creigh had failed to undress and wore the same clothing he had the previous day.

A Healer was the first to confront him about it; the same woman that had cured him of his headaches. She was as crafty as she was observant, for she listened to his hesitant explanation of his dilemma and then silently ignored him for the remainder of the say. When he was just returning to his room at the Healer's salle after the confrontation, she wordlessly handed him something wrapped in a cloth. When he opened it, he discovered a soft velvet pouch in its folds. She then explained that keeping valuables in the pouch would prevent him from having to move them from one set of clothing to another. She also assured him that it would only open if _he_ opened it, so nothing would be stolen from it when he went outside.

He would have preferred if someone_ had_ stolen the parchment. It would have been out of his life, and its poison would release its hold on him. But instead, he thanked her with a sincere smile and went up into his room. He knew better than to try and return the expensive gift – he didn't want to insult her, after all.

It wasn't until the next day that he realized how she'd 'kindly' deceived him. For the moment he put the pouch on his belt, he felt something had changed. Upon opening the pouch, he discovered with a great deal of alarm that it was empty. Only when he tore the pouch off again and hastily shook it upside down over his bed was he truly shocked, for the parchment that had been _missing _floated down onto his sheets. And so he drew the conclusion that while he _wore_ the pouch, its contents were invisible to any that looked within, but when it was not worn, its contents became visible again.

He didn't ask her where she had received such a precious and mysterious thing. He had a feeling she would not tell him, anyhow. Nor would she bring the subject up about it once she had handed it over. It simply joined his tally of few possessions and nothing more was made of it.

He now wore a pale gray uniform – clothes he'd been told were worn by Trainees. Trainees were students who had been Chosen by a Companion, whilst other trainees were a mixture of Bardic, Healer and Guard students, including those of the Royal Guard. That was another thing about Valdemar that confused him; everything was colour-coded according to position. Chosen Trainee uniforms were no more elaborate than those of the Bardic trainees – simply a different colour.

When he thought back at the arrogant, aloof way Mical had assumed his choosing to stay, he felt angry. Yet he felt relieved at the same time. It spared him from a long speech, or an awkward explanation as to why he decided to "try out" his new life. Not all of his reasons involved an imminent death should he return to Karse.

He'd been (pleasantly) surprised to learn that he was not the only Karse boy from Leindal to make that decision. Three days ago, Haschel came to visit him in his new quarters, accompanied by a friendly-looking Healer woman whom he introduced as Rena. The story about how the Herald Garan had detected a glimpse of Haschel's Gift during the battle came out into the open. Haschel too, had been rescued from a similar fate as Creigh.

But today, Creigh was nervous. It was the first time he'd felt anything so severely since his abdication over the border. Today, his classes begun.

He was told he would be training his gift, honing skills with a sword and bow, learning basic Valdemaran history, and taking an advanced language-writing class offered to all foreign trainees. Mical informed him that despite his rustic Valdemaran, he was far too advanced for the beginner's class. Creigh believed him.

There was good reason for his discomfort, too. He'd encountered many other students his age during his exploration of the Collegium grounds, but they had merely regarded him with cold indulgence. Only once had he ever encountered another Trainee wearing a similar uniform to his own, but she had ignored him, intentionally or not.

His morning was consisted of both language and weapons training. His language instructor, Keratha, a quiet but stern old woman who had been a Royal Guard in her youth, was patient with him as he struggled over nouns and verbs he'd never once used before. Creigh allowed himself a small amount of relief, knowing he would not be ridiculed for his poor grasp of the language. But he did not feel truly relieved until the class was over, and he paused just outside the door to recall the direction of the Training Grounds.

Someone tapped his shoulder lightly. His reflexes were to be commended, for he spun around so quickly, the boy that had been standing behind him jumped back. It was another Trainee, a youth perhaps a year older than him, now bearing an odd mixture of a sarcastic and questioning expression.

"Sorry," said the Trainee, but with no hint of venom. "You forgot this."

Creigh looked down at the object in the boy's hand and recognized it immediately. It was the parchment from his pouch. Without even thinking, he snatched it from the other boy's possession and hastily tucked it where it belonged, fumbling with a word that formed on his lips.

"It's 'Thank you'," said the Trainee, grinning. "That's what you say when someone does you a favour. Are you...really the new Chosen from Karse? The one Donli plucked right out of the sentry lines?"

Creigh stared on for a moment, bewildered. Half of what the boy said made no sense to him. But he understood enough to try and put today's lesson to use.

"That is as they say I am," he said slowly. "Donli, yes, my Companion is."

"Right," came the reply. "So, you're Creigh. I'm Ooric, Chosen of Peleates. For whatever she's good for."

Creigh's eyes widened. "A female Dem- Companion, a boy they can choose?"

Ooric's grin only widened. "Yes, of course. Actually, Donli's Chosen before you was a young woman."

Cold flooded through Creigh's chest. Donli had another Chosen? When? What happened to her? How could his Companion keep such a secret from him?

_:She was my Chosen. That is all: _said a soft voice at the edge of his mind. _:She no longer is. I care for you, my Chosen. That is all.:_

"No one told you, did they?" Ooric was saying hesitantly. "I'm sorry. Sometimes I can be a true idiot when it comes to keeping my mouth shut. Anyway, we had better be going. Weaponsmaster Alberich will bring the sky down on us if we're late."

After an unsuccessful grappling for his Companion, who had retreated into his own corner, Creigh pushed the matter of the former Chosen off to one side. He nodded slightly, then paused, giving the other boy a curious look. "Alberich's class, you are in? As well as I?"

"Unfortunately," sighed Ooric, brushing his red-speckled hair from his face. "He's a monster when it comes to training. If you slack off even a bit, you'll get the flat of his sword. Multiple...um, many times."

Creigh was moderately confused. "Sword? Why his sword would I want? My own, I have."

He then got another shock, when Ooric burst into furious laughter. For at least a full minute, he stood and stared blankly at the other boy as he tried to compose himself, but continuously failed after a single glance at Creigh's face set him off again. Finally, Ooric stood up with his hands pressed against his eyes.

"Never mind. This lesson is better learned the hard way," he said, smothering another snort. "Let's hurry, then. You don't want to mess up on the first day!"

No, he most certainly didn't. Sure, Ooric seemed to be friendly enough. But then, Creigh had been told that Heralds and Trainees were twice as forgiving towards foreign students as other trainees were. Perhaps it had something to do with being Chosen. Or perhaps it was because Ooric was something of a foreigner himself. Why else would he be in a language class?

Whatever the reason, he now had _someone_ from this country that didn't want to drown him in the river. That was some consolation.

_:You have me:_ said Donli quietly.

_:Besides you.: _Creigh shook his head to himself. _:I think I'm going to regret staying here.:_

_ :You won't.:_

_ :We'll see.:_

Creigh followed Ooric to the training grounds, while occasionally engaging in a brief question or two with the impossibly good-natured boy. While his head was heavy with more than a million worries, his heart felt lighter than it had ever been since...well, long before he'd received that cursed piece of parchment.

It was a promising day.

-

There were two days Alberich looked forward to the most. They each came once every year and quite evenly spaced apart. While one brought him great relief and a small bit of satisfaction, the other made him pleasantly nervous. Not such in the way he was worried about consequence, but the selection of students he would be given.

One of those days was the first day of class. The other was the last day of class.

And so, today, Alberich was nervous. Nervous about a great many of things, most of those being the norm – the size of his classes, how well behaved the first years would be after spending most of their lives being pampered. It was the type of anxiety that was also investigative. He _enjoyed_ pounding their luxurious lives out of them and watching them grudgingly transform into ready fighters. Knowledgeable ones, not the kind that had been spared too many throws into the mud.

Today, on the other hand, he had another thing to worry about. The Karsite boy. He had little doubt the youth knew nothing of handling a weapon, being the son of a farmer instead of a more free-lance occupation. A farm hand had very little time on their own – even less to spend on weapons training. There was plenty of strength in muscle, no doubt. The boy was in good shape. However...

The problem was inevitable. If Alberich was going to train this boy enough to be as ready as the other first years, he would either have to train him personally, or work him harder. Either way, he could not avoid the impression that he was giving the Karsite special treatment. It was one more thing he would have to abide. Such things were forgotten quickly, anyway.

The second-year trainees filed out of the room. Some were moaning about their fresh bruises – not all of them received by Alberich – but most were reflectively silent. It was an enormous change, one that always took place between the first and second year. Unfortunately, it was now the time of day to "meet" his new first year students. The part of the day he had been dreading – and looking forward to.

They came individually, of course. Being only the first of many days, there was no time to form cliques or clubs. The first of the arrivals was lost; Alberich waved the boy inside the salle silently. He instructed him to stand near the wooden staves, but not to touch them. That order was obeyed.

Within a few minutes, twenty-four youths stood before him, ranging in ages from thirteen to eighteen. Ooric, the son a passive Rethwallen merchant, was the oldest. Creigh was the next closest in age. The rest, on the either hand, were either thirteen or fourteen. There were, surprisingly, only two girls. Both Trainees.

It was a very strange group. It was not by far the strangest he'd ever seen, but it was close. What racked his nerves the most was the Karsite. While the others stared at him, Creigh's gaze was trained on the Weaponsmaster.

"You are aware, I know," said Alberich after several, long minutes of silence. "Trainee Creigh is not Valdemaran, but Karse. However here, foolish boyhood spite I do not entertain." Then, slowly, he turned a hard gaze on Ooric. "Some of you, experienced you may be, with these lessons I teach. Some not."

He was satisfied to see the eighteen-year-old flush at the comment. Ooric of the House of Tangrith was among the first years, yes, but this was not her "first year". In fact, Ooric had repeated his first year three times over now. This was currently his fourth year. The poor boy was simply a terrible fighter and couldn't put two sums together to save his life.

"Staves today your training will be," the Weaponsmaster stated. "Each one of you, a staff you will receive. Ooric, the one to present staves will be."

There was some mild confusion and some restless whispering, but it was not long before each trainee had a staff. They also bore equally distasteful expressions. Alberich had no doubt what those expressions were for.

Of course, as he had expected, one of the younger students grimaced at his staff as it were coated with poison. "_Staves_? My father doesn't train us with staves. I know how to handle a sword, old man."

More whispering. Ooric let out a soft groan and inched away from the highborn boy, as if _he_ were coated with poison. But Alberich did not smile, or calmly state that the boy was incorrect, as he might have done with an older student. Instead, he rather casually took a few steps toward the group of boys, until he loomed over defiant student and his primitive staff.

"The perhaps these lessons you will forfeit?" he offered. "Or perhaps with the second-years you wish to train. If your father, a warrior in his son sees, might ask of me your special training. No. Today, with staves you will train."

The boy grudgingly nodded, but refused to look up or acknowledge the Weaponsmaster. Alberich did not care. If the rebel would follow instructions until he did consult his father, there would be no disruptions in his class. Nor would the other boys, undoubtedly with similar problems, feel inclined to speak out.

He did not, however, miss the slightly agape mouth on Creigh's face. The boy shut it immediately once Ooric elbowed him, but there was no mistaking the look as one of utter perplexment. The question reeked without being spoken. How _dare_ he speak rudely to a highborn brat? It was unthinkable.

With time, of course, the Karsite would come to understand the rules of the salle. Hopefully – he found himself wishing with a tinge of regret – the boy wouldn't have to experience those rules first-hand in order to learn them.

Thus the lesson struggled on. The rebellious student proved to be at least partially honest about his claims, as he effortlessly performed the basic footwork and proper handling of the staff without so much as a hint of interest. Ooric's movements were similar, having used them too many times in his life to have easily memorized them. Alberich found himself correcting the young man repeatedly for moving ahead of the other trainees. Eventually, he ordered him to leave the group and practice by the mirrors. He could not fault the boy for rushing – Alberich was purposely slowing the movements down for the sake of the ignorant students.

Creigh did as well as the other new students. He fumbled once or twice – that was to be expected – but no one chided or jeered at him for being clumsy whilst under the eyes of the Weaponsmaster. Alberich suspected that even with his back turned, they ignored him. Good. There would be, at least, no bruised muscles or broken bones for the Karsite as his younger counterpart had received.

It had not occurred to him until now the communication between Ooric and the Karsite boy. Ooric was not ignoring Creigh as they others were, but instead interacting with him with short, well-placed wisecracks and even a few suggestions on his technique when Alberich allowed a short five-minute break.

Things were progressing far better than he had expected. There was only time, and there was plenty of time left before this boy from Karse was safe.

-

When the moon's end finally came around, most of the first year students were complaining of sore, stiff arms. Creigh felt the strain in his muscles, too, though he kept quiet about it. This work was very different from the hard, manual labour he endured on his father's farm. It was also more enjoyable. He did not have to wake before sunrise to feed the hungry livestock, or throw around heavy bales of straw that made his back ache at every day's end.

He was both relieved and disappointed to find the Armsmaster's treatment of him very unlike treatment at all. Herald Alberich had done all but ignored him, which he was inwardly glad for. But then he was angry at the same time. Why he felt that way, however, he didn't understand.

"Everything all right?" Ooric wanted to know, coming up beside him as he was crossing the training ground. The older boy was attempting to dry his sweat-soaked brow with a towel.

"Fine, I guess," came Creigh's hesitant response. Even after a full moon, he still had to carefully choose his words in order to make sense of them. "Confused, I believe I am. Something unright is."

"Wrong," Ooric corrected automatically. He had already adjusted to remedying Creigh whenever he needed correction. "Something is wrong. Why?"

Creigh stopped walking, pausing just between the rows of straw dummies. His face was affixed with calculation. "Ooric, this I wish to know. Karse and Valdemar, for a long time, enemies have been?"

Ooric slowly lowered the towel from his face; he raised an eyebrow. "Right," he said slowly.

"Then these other students, why keep-on they to myself ignore?"

His newfound friend's jaw hung open slightly for a moment, before the young man closed it. A thoughtful expression crossed his face. "Continue, Creigh. Not 'keep-on'. And I'm not sure why. Your friend, that Haschel lad, it's different for him. I mean, the first time it happened, it was bad luck. But trainees usually ignore foreigners who aren't Chosen. You, on the other hand, you're a special case."

There was a momentary lapse of silence. Then Creigh straightened. "Why?"

Ooric sighed. "Well-"

"There he is! Darte, we found him!"

Creigh's entire body froze at the sound of the familiar shout. The voice he recognized belonged to one of the younger first-years, a boy named Nivel. And wherever Nivel lurked, lurked another student and his cronies - Darte Graxon. Until now, they had left him alone. Perhaps they had decided to change their minds?

He turned around, forcing himself to smooth his face of anything that may betray his worried resentment. Where Nivel stood, another three boys from his class also waited. It was not another second or so before Darte joined them, along with two other students who were, to Creigh's surprise, third-years. Both of the older boys were his age, roughly his weight and build, and visually boasting their jobs as Darte's personal bodyguards.

"Why, joy. What swamp did you crawl out of this time, Graxon?" said Ooric smoothly.

"Geld yourself, Ooric. We want to talk to the Karsite, not you," came the venomous reply. "We just want to say something, that's all."

"Oh, really," Ooric said just as coolly. "Half the things out of your mouth are worth less than the dirt you're standing on. Are we supposed to be impressed?"

"We _happen_ to think the Karsite did pretty well today," Graxon sniffed. "You know we could be allies, you and I, Creigh. Consider it as an offering of friendship between two fighters, one Valdemaran, the other Karsite. It would be the first step towards peace between our countries."

"That first step was taken a long time ago," growled Ooric. "When Weaponsmaster Alberich was Chosen as a Herald."

"_Weaponsmaster_ Alberich is a crooked grouch," sneered Graxon. "He deserves to be hanged. He doesn't even know his place, the old bastard. But I think you're different, Karsite. You look strong, like Arram and Grayfeld here. I'm sure you're full of ideas no one ever bothered to ask you about."

"I do not understand," said Creigh flatly. "Ideas, I have, of many things. None in particular, there are, that useful to anyone might be."

"Oh, you have them," Graxon insisted, which invoked grins on the faces of his peers. "You see, we don't like that crotchety old man Alberich any more than you do. We want to _remind_ him to treat us students with some respect."

"Nothing against Alberich I have," said Creigh defensively.

"Nothing?" echoed Nivel. "Haven't you ever pulled a prank before? You don't need to have anything _against_ him, Karsite. It's more of a…friendly gesture. But…if you don't have any ideas that could help us, then I guess you're just not as bright as we thought you were."

Ooric lay a hand on Creigh's shoulder and gripped it tightly. "I wouldn't listen to them. They're trying to trick you into whatever scheme they've got planned."

But the tips of Creigh's ears were burning now. He could not help it – his hands were semi-consciously curling into fists as the insult stung him. "Pranks I have done. Those merely games are. Once a blacksmith, taking a hot sword from coals, as punishment for being late, a boy he branded. At night, his drink we changed, while he slept his head we shaved as _his _punishment-"

"Creigh, calm down-" Ooric whispered fiercely.

He had no interest in such things. Creigh closed in on Graxon as his heavily accented words grew sharper. "-for the innkeeper, who women he abused, painted warning signs from spirits on his walls we did. An old farmer, who from my father did steal chickens, on his horses we put red ink and his chicken coop we set fire-"

"That's enough!" snapped Ooric, shoving himself between the Karsite boy and Graxon. "Don't you see you're just playing his game? You don't have to prove anything! They're not worth it."

"The only thing around here that's worthless is _you_, Rethwallen," spat Graxon. "Let's go, gentlemen. I don't think the Karsite and his slime-gutted friend appreciate our hospitality. What a shame."

"It's a shame you're still breathing, but you don't see us complaining," Ooric muttered.

Graxon sniffed, waved to his third-year bodyguards and stormed off between the rows of practice dummies. The remaining boys were quick to take of their rear, which left Creigh and Ooric alone in the midst of the training field. The Rethwallen youth yelled something vulgar after their retreating backs, but received only cold silence in return. He spat on the ground.

"Why do that?" said Creigh temperedly. "Graxon should learn. A leader, a fighter, clever he is not. Knows nothing about survival or honour, does he."

"And clearly, neither do you," sighed Ooric. "Don't you realize yet? If he and his clique somehow manage to pull a prank on the Weaponsmaster, they can tell whoever is in charge that _you_ gave them the idea. What's worse, you just made it true."

Creigh felt his stomach turn to ice. It was true. It was all very, very true. Without even thinking, he'd supplied every reason for anyone to believe he was associated with Graxon and his gang. If they did something terrible and blamed it on him, there was no way he could escape the punishment.

"So blind!" he growled, covering his eyes with a hand. "The trap they set for me I did not expect. Truly blind, I must be!"

Ooric sighed deeply. "Well, it's over. There's nothing we can do about it. The best we can do now is hurry and get something to eat before luncheon is over. We can worry about this later."

Creigh stared at the ground for a moment before nodding solemnly. "Then let us go. I apologize."

"Nah, don't." Ooric slapped him on the shoulder. "It could have happened to anyone. Graxon is a dirtball, end of story. Let's just call it another lesson you've learned the hard way."

But as well-meant Ooric's words were, Creigh was sullen to wonder if anything could be learned the _easy_ way. It seemed as if everything he had learned up to this point he worked for, and it was _hard_.

And now…now what had he got himself involved in?


End file.
